The Standing-Stone Of The Sigin-Tarâg
by Whisper-norbury
Summary: Fíli grew up knowing that he would one day be the ruler of his people; but when Erebor is reclaimed and his uncle's sanity starts to fail, he begins to wonder about the Arkenstone's relationship to the madness of his forbears. (Please note that I am currently going back through this story to fix a number of errors and, hopefully, improve it overall! Thank you for your patience!)
1. Home

_**NOTE: **This is a "what-if" tale involving the survival of Fíli after the Battle Of The Five Armies._

_The first (of many) chapters of this story were written before the movie of the Battle Of The Five Armies was out in theaters, and as such it features a VERY different version of that Battle (the point of divergence from the movie being just after the killing of Smaug). After I saw the movie, I thought to change the story to fit more in line with what really happened in the film, but by then I had gotten 25 chapters done, and the events as I had written them were too deeply involved in the rest of the story._

_Thank you for reading!_

* * *

_**NOTE ALSO: This may not be the best time to begin reading this story, as I am in the middle of going through it and fixing up a number of mistakes If you decide to read it right now, anyway, please forgive any little grammatical problems you may come across, as they are soon to be fixed. When the "repairs" are done, I will remove this note. Thank you very much!**_

* * *

**Chapter One**

**HOME**

**Upon reaching the Lonely Mountain, Fíli's initial joy at finding his companions alive turns to fear, as his uncle seems to be sliding towards the dragon-sickness that claimed his grandfather, Thrór.**

* * *

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Fíli had expected that the first time he stepped into the halls of his people a wave of pride would wash over him, that he would have to pause and take in the beauty of it all — the carved stone pillars reaching up and out of sight, the mirror-smooth tile floors, the never-ending rush of the River Running. That was how Thorin had described it to him and Kíli when they were young, that was the image that had stayed with them throughout their trek to Erebor.

What they found was more like a dungeon.

The walls were clawed and crumbling, the once-great stone kings had been pulled from their pedestals and crushed under Smaug's feet, and the air still stank of his foul breath. All around, the sound of rocks falling from the tall ceiling echoed, and from somewhere not so far away they could hear water flowing — but it sounded slow and thick, as if it were choked with slime.

He knew the beauty remained there somewhere, buried under the rubble that the dragon had left in its wake. Perhaps, he thought, they would someday find it; but that would take time and many more hands, and at the moment they had neither. Still, after all they had gone through, it was a relief to be there at all, and the even greater relief of discovering the Company alive forced the disappointment of their reclaimed home's condition to the back of Fíli's mind.

Of course, there was also the matter of the two armies marching in behind them.

_"Those poor fools were the first to die," _Bard had said, trying to convince the Dwarves that heading for Erebor would be a mistake. _"The dragon burned them, then he came to us for his revenge."_

But Fíli had refused to believe him without proof, and had planned to leave as soon as Kíli's leg was healed enough for him to walk the long road. By that time, however, the Elvenking had shown up with a great number of armored Elves, and while Fíli and the others had feared that he would recapture and lock them away for good, Thranduil simply offered aid to the Men of the Lake and ignored the Dwarves almost completely.

Whispers rose, though, among the survivors of Laketown that the Elves were planning to march on the Mountain; and Bard had struck up what appeared to be a fast friendship with the Elvenking and was spending many hours speaking with him in private. Soon, the rumors became shouts, and all able-bodied Men began kitting themselves out for what may have either been a recovery operation or a siege — although even _they_ did not seem to know exactly what they were readying themselves for.

But in any case, Fíli knew that he and the other Dwarves that had been left behind in Laketown needed to get to the Mountain first–to find their Company, or at least any of them who might still live–and in a quiet moment away from Elvish ears, he had told Óin, Bofur, and Kíli that they would leave for Erebor as soon as darkness fell.

And so they had left just after sundown and trudged through the night, though with the coming of dawn they could see a cloud of dust being sent up not more than a couple miles behind — evidence of the Men and Elves already marching out. Fíli tried to urge his companions to move more swiftly, but Kíli's leg was in pain and they were all tired from the past few sleepless days. Still, they rushed on as fast as they could, noting by the time they reached Erebor that the battalions behind them would soon be in sight.

Without knowing quite what to expect, the group made their way up the crumbled path to the Gate, seeing before they even got there that a barricade had been recently built across it. A tuft of red hair popped up over the stones, then disappeared again, then they all heard a hearty laugh.

"Alive! Well, I just knew you lads would be!" Glóin called out. "Takes more than a little dragonfire to kill off a group as stubborn as you!"

Urged on by the thrill of finding at least one of their number still alive, they rushed up and over the barricade. Fíli stopped atop it for a moment to reach down and give Kíli a hand up, and when they were all over the side, Glóin grinned and slapped Óin on the shoulder.

"Welcome home, brother!" he said cheerfully.

Off to the corner of the ledge they saw Bombur, smiling wide and fairly bouncing with joy. He laughed, then bounded over to his own brother and wrapped his arms around him, squeezing the thinner Dwarf and lifting him right off his feet.

"Alright, thank you…" squeaked Bofur breathlessly. "Yes, it's good to see you, too!"

A chuckle came from just within the shattered Gate, and they all watched on as Balin came striding into the light. "Well, now, this is wonderful!" he exclaimed with his arms held wide. "Welcome home, lads!"

Fíli reached out and clasped the older Dwarf's wrist in greeting. "Is everybody alright?"

"A little singed and a little sore, but all alive and… _mostly_ well." He looked at Kíli. "And you, laddie? Your leg?"

"A lot better," said Kíli; then he cleared his throat before changing the subject. "Where is Thorin? We need to speak with him."

"It is rather urgent," added Óin.

Balin tugged on his long white beard for a few seconds before turning his back to the barricade. "Come with me."

Bombur hugged his brother a little tighter before him letting go; and Bofur landed hard on his feet, then took a deep breath and patted Bombur's shoulder before running in after Balin. Óin and Kíli followed them with cautious steps, and Fíli went in last of all, taking one more look back over his shoulder towards where the distant group of Elves and Men must by now be marching.

"Thorin's been…" said Balin as he led them down the ruined hall. "Well, he's been busy."

"Busy doing what?" asked Bofur, his voice still hoarse from his brother's enthusiastic hug.

"Searching for the Arkenstone," said Fíli, answering for the older Dwarf.

The others all looked at him for a moment; and though Balin nodded, he said nothing. Not that anything needed to be said on the matter. Everyone knew full well what that jewel meant to Thorin, what it meant to his father and grandfather, what it meant to all of the _Sigin-tarâg_ — the Longbeards.

Of the Company, few had ever been near the King's Jewel in person. Balin and Dwalin had seen it often, of course, and Óin claimed to have glimpsed it once or twice – though of them all, only Thorin had ever been known to come close enough to touch it; and he had described it in detail to Fíli and Kíli when they were younger.

_"It was like a rush of cut gems running up my fingers and into my arm,"_ he'd told them once. _"It was cold, but it burned… like holding onto an icy bar of metal long enough for it to freeze to your skin. But when I took my hand away there was no damage at all, just a lingering cold, a pain… but that… all that was in an instant. I touched it for barely a second, but the sensation stayed, and I could feel it for hours after." _He had then paused and looked at his opened palm. _"Sometimes, I still can."_

Fíli peered into the darkness ahead, and in the far distance he could see a yellow light. As they drew closer, the light became more intense, and when at last they came to the end of the hall, everybody stood fast and stared in awe.

The great hall—Thrór's treasure-room, Fíli realized—was bathed in a shimmering brilliance. Here and there, fires had been stoked up, and the light reflected harshly off the silver, gold, and gems that were piled all around. The illumination shifted and danced as the remainder of the Company milled about below the newcomers, setting the hills of coins sliding like small avalanches.

"Thorin!" Balin cried out, his voice echoing off the distant walls.

Far off, a kneeling figure lifted his head. "Have you found it?"

Balin led the way down the stone steps that led deeper into the room, motioning for the others to follow him. "No! However, I _have_ found something else of value!"

Thorin stared for a moment, then slowly stood. He met the group halfway across the room, smiling as he stepped up to Kíli and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"You've made it," he said, shaking his younger nephew happily; then he turned to Fíli and stood up tall, thrusting his chest out proudly. "What do you think?" he asked, motioning at the treasure all around them.

"I think…" said Fíli, squinting against the glare. "...This is a lot of gold."

"And there are greater treasures still to be found," said Thorin, then he fell to his knees and resumed digging through the hoard.

Fíli lifted his eyes from the gold his uncle was displacing in his search and looked instead at the joyful, yet tired faces now all around him. Óin and Kíli were speaking to one another in whispers, all the while keeping their eyes on the mountains of precious metal and gems; but Bofur was standing stock-still and slack-jawed, and seemed almost to be in shock.

"Never seen such a thing, eh?" said Nori, stepping up to him.

Bofur jumped and his mouth snapped shut. "Can't say that I have.

"The first we saw of it," said Dori, "we were running through, away from Smaug."

Fíli took a step towards him. "Smaug is dead," he said. "But Laketown is gone, and a lot of the Lakemen died before the dragon."

"We saw the smoke rising from the Lake," said Thorin without looking up. "When the worm didn't return, we assumed he had been dealt with."

"It was Bard's shot that took him down," said Óin softly. "He loosed a single black arrow, and sent it straight through the beast's armored hide."

"It wasn't completely armored," said Bilbo, stepping close. "There was a scale missing on his left breast."

"Then that is where the Bowman hit him," Óin went on, a touch of wonderment slipping into his words. "A perfect shot, worthy of his family's reputation. He has been hailed as a hero, a leader of Men! There's talk of him being crowned king when…"

Thorin seemed to have had enough of listening to the chatter and stood, then pushed his way through the gathered crowd. "Keep searching," he commanded.

Balin sighed as he placed a gentle touch on his old friend's shoulder. "You've been awake for days, Thorin. You should rest."

"Not until it is found."

"The dragon is dead. With or without the Arkenstone, none now would question your right to rule."

"_I_ would question it," said Thorin, shrugging him off.

Dwalin pushed a golden bowl aside with his foot. "Perhaps that foul worm swallowed it."

"Then I will dive down to the bottom of Long Lake and cut it out of his belly."

Fíli watched his uncle's hands clench and took a step towards him, but Balin gave him a warning glance and the younger Dwarf stopped.

"We need to speak with him," said Kíli, moving closer to his brother.

"I don't think right now is the best time, lad," said Balin, his voice low.

"We have to…" Fíli started, intending on mentioning the approaching armies; but Thorin didn't give him the chance.

"That jewel is my family's legacy," he said; then he looked intently at Fíli. "_Our_ legacy. It represents all that I am, all that my father and grandfather were. Whether it lies at the bottom of a steaming lake or somewhere deep under the dragon-fouled gold within this mountain, I will find it." He bent and brought up a handful of coins. "And then I will feel no shame in calling myself _king_."

"Was your grandfather not the king before he took possession of it?" asked Balin.

Bilbo held up a nervous finger. "Um, Thorin… if…"

Thorin glared at him. "Had you done the job you were hired to do… had you found the Arkenstone and returned it to me, as you had been instructed…"

The Hobbit let out a little squeak; then he backed a couple steps away from Thorin and looked instead to Balin, who was giving him a tight-lipped smile. "I was just curious, really."

Thorin moved near to him once more; then he reached out and moved the lapel of Bilbo's jacket aside, revealing a fine silver-mesh shirt below. "You have been given your first payment, _burglar_. Find the Arkenstone and you will receive the rest."

Fíli focussed on the shirt. "Is that…?"

"Mithril," said Dwalin, nodding. "Thorin found it shortly after we arrived. The Hobbit was the only one amongst us that it would fit."

Fíli shook his head, keeping his eyes on the gleaming mail. Despite growing up with the fairness and brilliance of mithril being told to him in bedtime tales, he had only ever seen a simple circlet made of the precious metal, and he wondered how many other treasures of its like might be found amongst the recovered wealth.

Balin had once told him and Kíli about a mithril helmet that had belonged to his ancestor, Borin; it was said to be so light that sometimes he would not even remember he had it on, and its resilience was such that no blade could cut through it.

That claim, though, was later amended when Thorin told them about Durin's Axe – a fine, double-headed weapon which was, itself, said to have been made of silver-steel. Apparently, its edge was so finely-ground that it could cut through any armor or shield; and despite its lightness, the broad side was able to crush an orc's skull like the heaviest hammer. The mithril axe had been lost when Khazad-dûm fell; but no other weapon forged by the Dwarves was said to have been more powerful or of finer craftsmanship.

Fíli couldn't imagine for whom the shirt Bilbo was wearing had originally been crafted, since it was certainly not meant for a Dwarf – unless for a very young one, and one who preferred a more Elvish-styling over that of his own people. In any case, he could not fathom what the full value of such a thing might be; and the Hobbit clearly had no idea of its worth, either, as he was keeping it hidden under layers of what were very nearly rags.

Bilbo shifted from foot to foot, then began scratching the back of his neck. "I was just going to ask what the Arkenstone actually _does_," he said. "Is it just symbolic? To be honest, I don't know much about it, and…"

"You know all that you need to know," said Thorin firmly. "It doesn't matter to _you_ what it does; it matters only that it is recovered and returned to _me_. And this is my word: Should I discover it in anyone's possession but my own, I will see them dead!"

Bilbo rubbed his nose, then scratched the back of his head. "Yes. I see. Right."

Fíli looked around at the gathered group, who had all backed several steps away from Thorin. Various levels of fear played across their faces, from Balin's paternal concern to Bilbo's abject terror; Dori had even pulled Ori back behind himself, and now stood protectively between his younger brother and Thorin. Fíli had never seen his uncle have that effect on any of the Company. None of them had ever seen him so obsessed, so angry. None of them had ever feared him.

Thorin again turned his eyes to the gold at his feet, but a yell from a distant doorway brought his and everyone else's attention around.

"Thorin!" hollered Glóin. He took a moment to catch his breath, apparently having run all the way to the treasure room. "You are being called to the Gate!"

"Called by whom?" demanded Thorin.

"Bard the Bowman... and the Elvenking!"

Thorin squeezed the gold in his palm, then threw it hard onto the pile before him. "What is _Thranduil_ doing at my Gate?"

"His people marched out from Laketown," said Fíli.

"And _what_ was he doing in Laketown?"

"He went there to help after…" Kíli began; then he looked at Fíli out of the corner of his eye.

"He was helping the Men recover from Smaug's attack," Fíli finished for his brother.

Thorin stood and tilted his head, staring deep into Fíli's eyes. "Was he, now?" he asked almost too calmly; then he made his way towards the doorway. When he reached it, he turned half around and called back, "Keep searching, all of you! Dwalin! Come with me!" before vanishing into the darkness beyond.

Dwalin obeyed, and the rest of the Company watched until he was out of sight. Bilbo tapped his finger against his jacket pocket and hummed softly to himself, then he did a little hop before setting off after Thorin and Dwalin.

"I need to…" he said, but his small voice was lost to the group the closer he got to the door.

Ori finally dared to step out from behind his brother, then he looked at Balin. "What do we do now?"

"We search for the Arkenstone," said Balin.

"There's so much here," said Kíli, sliding his pack off his shoulder and setting it down on a large crystal plate at his feet. "It could be anywhere. What if we don't find it?"

"Then we _keep_ searching."

Fíli glanced towards the door. "And if we _do_ find it? What then?"

Balin let out a weary breath. "Then _the King beneath the Mountain shall come into his own_."


	2. In The Blood

**Chapter Two**

**IN THE BLOOD**

**Battle with the combined forces of Thranduil's Elves and the Men of the Lake seems inevitable; and as Thorin calls for war, Fíli wonders if he, himself, will someday fall into the same madness that seems to flow through the veins of every King Under The Mountain.**

* * *

"Just us?" asked Ori, his voice small and shaking. "Against all of _them_?"

"Uncle, you can't just…" Kíli began, but Thorin silenced him with a look.

Not long after Thorin had left the treasure room, the rest of the Company had been sent for; and now they were gathered all together just inside the Gate, listening fearfully as they were told to prepare for battle. Already the Men of the Lake and Thranduil's people had begun to set up a camp between the ruins of Dale and the Lonely Mountain, and it did not seem likely that they were planning on leaving any time soon.

"What is it that they want?" asked Balin.

"They want what is ours," said Thorin. "And I will _not_ let them have it."

"The orcs attacked us in Laketown," said Bofur. "If the Elves hadn't been there…"

Thorin shoved him aside and stepped out into the light, then he looked over the barricade at the milling crowd. "Trying to serve their own ends, no doubt."

The others followed him out onto the ramparts, but stayed closer to the door.

"And the Elf-maid, Tauriel healing young Kíli's leg," Óin spoke up. "Was that also for her own benefit?"

Thorin narrowed his eyes. "Elves only ever serve their own ends," he repeated, returning his attention to the armies below. "They measure time in centuries, and people with shorter lives than their own matter little to them."

"You're wrong," whispered Kíli, then he shied away from his uncle's fiery gaze.

"And what of the Lake-men?" asked Fíli quickly, trying to draw Thorin's attention away from Kíli. "It was _Bard_ that killed Smaug. If he hadn't, the dragon would be back here now, and the Mountain would still not be ours."

"And if _Girion_ had managed to kill him, our home would never have been taken from us in the first place," said Thorin. "What Bard did, he did for his own people. That it meant Smaug would not return to the Mountain meant nothing to him. And now he sits at our Gate with the Elvenking by his side, calling out for our property in recompense. I will _not_ let them have it."

"Those at our Gate have suffered from Smaug's wrath, just as we have," said Balin. "The Men of Laketown have suffered and died… their families have suffered and died, just as ours did."

"The Elves did not suffer, let them help their new _friends_. Or they may leave and I will consider negotiations with Bard and the Men of the Lake, but I will not allow a single coin to leave these halls under threat of force."

"_Smaug_ was the enemy," said Fíli. "Not..."

Turning swiftly, Thorin grabbed him by the collar and pushed him hard against the wall. "Thranduil and his people _claimed_ to be our friends once, then left us to _die_." He let go of Fíli and stepped back. "Left us to _burn_, and to _starve_ after."

"And so you would do the same to the Lake-men?" asked Balin softly.

Thorin glowered at him. "If they are allied with the Elves, then let the Elves aid them." He slowly drew his sword and pointed it at each of the Company in turn. "And if you value their false friendship more than the kinship of your own people, then you may leave now. Join them, if you wish."

They all remained silent at the tip of his blade; so Thorin returned his sword to its sheath and straightened up proudly before heading back into the Mountain. "Arm yourselves!"

For a long moment, no one spoke, then Dwalin cleared his throat. "Right," he said as he started towards Gate and motioned for the others to follow. "This way to the armory. Bombur, stay on guard."

Bombur looked at him, then down at his less-than-battle-ready outfit.

"Don't worry," said Bofur to his brother as he followed Dwalin inside. "I'll see what I can find in your size."

"Though some significant adjustments may be needed," added Glóin.

Soon, most of the Company had vanished into the darkness of the Mountain; though Fíli, Kíli, Bilbo, and Balin hung back with Bombur. Fíli rubbed his collarbone, where Thorin had dug his fingers in when he pushed him against the wall, then he turned to ask the Hobbit if he was holding up well under the circumstances. But Bilbo was now nowhere to be seen, and even as Fíli spun in a circle, he could not find him.

"Where's Bilbo?"

Kíli glanced around as well. "He was just here. Did he go in after Thorin?"

"I guess he must have," said Fíli.

"And I suppose we should do the same," said Balin; but he did not yet take a step towards the door. He crossed his arms and looked over at the young brothers. "So, the Elves helped you in Laketown, did they?"

"Yes," said Kíli, resting his hand where the arrow had gone into his leg. "Some more than others."

"Thranduil himself didn't come to the Lake, I assume."

"Not until after the town was already burned to the water," said Fíli. "But the fair-haired Elf that took Orcrist from Thorin came before then, and..."

"And Tauriel with him," Kíli finished for his brother, smiling almost wistfully.

"The captain-of-the-guard," Fíli clarified when Balin raised an eyebrow. "You might remember her. She was the one that brought Kíli back to the Company after the other Elves had caught us in the Forest."

"Ah," said Balin, nodding. "Well, it was nice of them to help you out, even after the chase we'd led them on, I suppose." He stood quietly for a few more seconds before turning towards the Gate and starting inside. "Well, let's get to it, then."

Balin's delay struck Fíli odd, but he did not yet say anything about it, and he and Kíli walked behind him in respectful silence. At length, they came to a junction and stopped. Up ahead they could hear the echoing voices of the other Dwarves getting themselves ready for battle; but instead of heading that way, Balin rested a hand on Kíli's shoulder.

"Would you mind terribly going on?" he asked.

Kíli took a step back. "Why?"

Fíli and Balin locked gazes. "Kíli, would you…" He looked over at his brother. "I need to speak with Balin in private."

"I don't understand."

Balin's knowing eyes stayed on Fíli. "It would be best."

Kíli drew his eyebrows together, then slowly began making his way down the passageway after the others; and when he had gone around the corner and out of sight, Balin started down a side corridor.

"Where are we going?" asked Fíli, falling into step beside him. But when Balin didn't answer, he asked what he had been wanting to since he had first seen his uncle on his knees in the treasure room. "What's wrong with Thorin?"

"Eh?"

"He's changed."

"Aye. Power…" Balin winced, as if his choice of words had stung him. "_Responsibility_ has a way of changing people."

"Not for the better, it seems."

"Not always. But he is doing what he thinks is best for us. For all of us."

Fíli took hold of Balin's shoulder, trying to stop him; but Balin kept walking, and Fíli didn't feel it was his place to pull the older Dwarf to a halt. He lowered his hand and followed as Balin continued on for a couple more minutes, first down one passage, then another, until at last they stopped outside a closed carved-stone door. Balin placed his palm on it and shut his eyes, then pushed it open, coughing bit when a cloud of dust and ash rose out of the room.

His stiffened shoulders drooped in relief. "I was afraid they hadn't escaped from here," he said, his voice cracking. "The children and their mothers."

It was, at first, too dim for Fíli to see anything inside — but Dwarf eyes adjust well to the darkness of their own delvings, and soon he was able to make out many small stone beds lining the walls. Balin moved deeper inside and reached down to one of the beds, lifting the edge of the finely-stitched mattress. The fabric tore apart in his grip, and feathers fell from the hole and floated to the floor; then he dropped the mattress back onto the bed and sat down on it.

"What is this place?" asked Fíli, stepping closer to him.

"A nursery," said Balin. "One of many."

The breath caught in Fíli's throat. "Why did you bring me here?"

Balin leaned slightly forward. "Are you afraid?"

Fíli straightened his back and started to shake his head, but his resolve failed. "Yes," he admitted. "But not about the battle."

"No, I didn't think that was it. We've seen worse. Much worse."

Drawing his eyes away from the older Dwarf, Fíli started wandering around the room. He had fully intended on speaking with Balin—one of the wisest people he knew—about his worries regarding the kinghood and the Arkenstone, but now that it came down to it, he found himself unable say anything.

"The strange thing about madness is that, if you are truly mad, you don't know it," said Balin, apparently guessing what was on Fíli's mind; and the younger Dwarf turned and saw that Balin's gnarled hands were folded on his lap and he was staring intently at them. "Thorin is doing what he believes is right, but he is, at the same time, being blinded by… something else. What that could be, I can't say. Dragon-fever, perhaps, or something more personal." He pursed his lips and let out a long breath through his nose. "But his present condition isn't what really concerns you, is it?"

"It does, but…" said Fíli; then he quieted himself and began studying the carved stone arch above the door.

"You are wondering if you and Kíli will go down the same path."

Fíli looked down at his feet and said nothing, though he nodded slowly.

"I honestly can't say if you will or not," said Balin. "All I can tell you is that so far, none of your kin have gone that way…" He shut his mouth tightly for a moment before going on. "None have gone that way before coming to power."

"What causes it, though?" asked Fíli anxiously. "Why the madness?"

"I wish I could tell you, lad."

Fíli let his thoughts drift back to the image of his uncle, clawing desperately through the gold in the treasure room. "Could it be the Arkenstone?" he asked suddenly and without thinking. "Perhaps the closer Thorin gets to it…"

He let his words trail off, then he sat down on the bed across from Balin and glanced around once more. Toys lay here and there on the floor and neatly folded clothing was stacked up on a couple of the beds — if not for the thick layer of dust, the room might have just been abandoned that day.

"Did my uncle sleep here as a child?"

"No," said Balin. "A young prince wouldn't have. Your _father_, on the other hand…"

Fíli looked over at him. "This was my father's nursery?"

"Well, perhaps 'nursery' isn't the right word," said Balin with a small shrug. "It wasn't so much that as a playroom, really. Mothers would bring their children here, then sit and talk while their little ones played. My mother and Náli's were no different. He and I were not really friends in those young days, but after our escape from Smaug, we grew much closer."

"You knew him well, then?"

"Oh, yes," said Balin, nodding. "He was brave, loyal. Always quick to smile, yet fierce in battle. He was a protector, first and last, and he would never allow a soul to come to harm, if he could help it." He grinned and winked. "Very much like another young Dwarf I know."

Fíli swallowed hard. He had only vague recollections of his and Kíli's father, and for most of his memory, Thorin had been the closest they'd had to one. He'd taught them to fight, showed them how to patch up wounds, instructed them on how to set traps for wild beasts – it had been his voice that had first spoken to them in _Khuzdul_, his hands that first formed the Dwarvish sign-language of _iglishmêk_ before their curious eyes.

Of Náli, their father, Fíli and Kíli knew little – except that he had died to the swords of orcs when they were both very young, and that his portrait hanging on their mother's bedroom wall could have been one of Fíli himself, so alike did they look.

Fíli scratched the back of his neck. "You've never spoken of him before," he said. "Why are you telling me all of this _now_?"

Balin sighed. "You worry about the blood you have running through your veins. You worry that whatever has taken Thorin's mind will someday take yours. But you are not Thorin's son; you are your _father's_ son. You look like him, you speak like him… you even _fight_ like him."

"I'm also my _mother's_ son," said Fíli, nearly in a whisper, "and her blood is the same as Thorin's."

Balin let out a long and weary breath. "When your uncle was younger, he was… rash and reckless and bold," he said. "He never thought before he acted, he just did and said whatever he wanted to, regardless of what anybody else had to say about it. You are not like him, you never have been. I don't believe that when you become king you will…" He fell silent, his eyes darting back and forth for a moment; then he looked towards the door. "Come on in, laddie. No use pretending you aren't there."

Fíli stood and watched as his brother stepped out of the shadows beyond the doorway. "I told you to go with Thorin," he scolded gently.

"I know you did," said Kíli, staring intently at him; then he looked to Balin and the two held each other's gaze for a few seconds before he lowered his head and turned away. "Am I _also_ my father's son?"

"Yes, of course you are," said Balin, standing up. "He was a good and honorable…"

"And yet people are always telling me how alike Thorin and I are," Kíli interrupted. "Maybe I have gotten more from that side of the family than from my father. But then, I guess I won't ever have to really worry about it." He gave Fíli a weak smile. "I'm never going to be king."

Fíli took a step towards his brother. "Kíli…"

Before he could say any more, however, he heard distant yelling. The three of them looked up as one, then ran into the passageway outside the room; and there they paused and listened as the sound became louder and more voices joined in.

"This way," said Balin, motioning for the others to follow him as he began running down a side corridor.

They made their way along the passageway and around several corners, until at last they reached the barricaded Gate. There they found the rest of the Company, now mostly dressed in old Dwarven armor, looking down at the crowd below.

"What is it?" asked Balin. "What is happening?"

Thorin, who was now in a chain-mail coat, spun around and glared at them. "I told you to ready yourselves for battle," he said, pushing past. "It is on our doorstep. Arm yourselves!"

When he disappeared from their sight, Fíli took Bofur by the arm. "What is going on?"

Bofur shrugged. "Honestly, I'm not really sure, myself."

"Where is Bilbo?" asked Balin, looking around.

Bombur—for whom, it seemed, Bofur had indeed managed to find a fitting coat of mail—pointed down past the barricade.

A chill ran up Fíli's spine as, for a moment, he feared that the Hobbit had fallen; but when he joined the others in peering over the side he saw Bilbo standing before Bard and the Elvenking. The Hobbit was speaking to them, and he had his hands held out in front of himself, as if imploring them to stand down.

Fíli opened his mouth to again ask what had happened, but Glóin stepped up beside him and placed a hand on his arm before he could say a word.

"Bilbo…" Glóin began; then he exhaled sharply before going on. "He gave them the Arkenstone. He gave it to the Elves and Men."

Fíli very nearly gasped. "When did he find it?"

Balin stroked his beard thoughtfully. "There's no telling," he said, almost too calmly. "But, well... at least we know that it _has_ been found."

Kíli shook his head. "But, why would Bilbo give it to _them_?"

"What does it matter _why_?" growled Dwalin. He turned to Balin and his hard eyes softened a touch. "You and the lads best go and get yourselves ready. Doesn't look like we'll be having a peaceable end to this."

Balin nodded stiffly and lowered his hand from his beard. "Very well," he said, spinning around towards the Gate. "Fíli, Kíli... come with me. I'll show you to the barracks."

Fíli still had more questions, but he knew it would do no good asking them now, so he followed after the older Dwarf and motioned for Kíli to come along, as well. The three got to the barracks in short time and Balin showed them a row of fine armor hanging from the wall. They each picked a suitable set and silently put them on, helping one another to tighten the straps to a snug fit; then Balin led them across the passageway to one of Erebor's armories.

"Pick your weapons, lads," he said, pulling an ash-coated mace off one of the many racks lining the wall. "They're all in good condition. All fine Dwarven workmanship."

Fíli grabbed two small blades and strapped them to his legs, then he spotted a long, two-handed axe and pulled it down. He looked it over and found that it was still sharp after more than a century of neglect, then he checked it for weight and balance.

"This should do just fine," he said somberly. "I hope I'll not need to use it, though."

"And this?" asked Kíli, holding up a sturdy short-bow.

"It fits your hand well," said Fíli. "But you may also want to get yourself a blade."

Kíli pulled a square-pommelled short-sword partway out of the sheath hanging on his chain belt. "I already have."

"And arrows?" asked Balin.

Kíli slid the blade back into its scabbard. "I was given some when I was at the Lake," he said. "They're in my pack down in the treasure room."

"Oh? Were they a gift from Bard?"

"From an Elf," said Fíli.

"From a friend," Kíli added quickly.

Balin raised an eyebrow. "Must have been a close friend, indeed. Elves are not inclined to part with such things." He ran his fingers along the haft of a longsword that still hung on the wall. "Your _friend_ was not the prince, Legolas, I assume."

"Prince?" asked Fíli.

"Aye. Thranduil's son... Legolas _Thranduilion_, as his folk might say properly. I recognized his name when I heard it spoken by the other Elves when they captured us."

"He was the one that saved us from the orcs in Laketown," said Kíli. "Along with Tauriel."

Balin hummed. "Yes, so you said. It was nice to hear. Gives hope that perhaps the friendship between our peoples will be renewed."

"In time, maybe," said Fíli. "But not today. Not if Thorin has any say in the matter."

"Thorin has every say in the matter," a gruff voice came from nearby, and they all looked up to find Dwalin standing in the doorway with an enormous mace in his grip. He shifted his eyes off to the side for a moment, as if in thought, then turned and walked out of the doorway. "Come along now," he said, his tone easing a bit. "He is waiting for us at the Gate."


	3. To Arms

**Chapter Three**

**TO ARMS**

**Battle has come to the lonely mountain - but it is not the Battle that the Dwarves of Erebor had expected.**

* * *

"Tell me, brother," said Balin as he and the younger Dwarves caught up to Dwalin. "What happened, exactly, with Bilbo? Did he say _why_ he chose not to give Thorin the Arkenstone?"

Dwalin's hand tightened on his weapon. "No," he growled.

"Well, there must be a _reason_."

"Who's to say?" snapped Dwalin. "He did it, and he no longer fights by our side." The corners of his eyes wrinkled for a moment, then he tilted his chin up and quickened his pace. "But if it comes down to battle, I expect the halfling's neck to be the first one that Thorin's blade finds."

As they neared the Gate, Kíli stopped and grabbed his brother by the arm, pulling him to a halt while Balin and Dwalin walked on into the daylight. From beyond the doorway angry words could be heard being bandied between Thorin and Bard, who was standing some distance below; and Kíli squeezed his brother's arm in agitation, the pressure evident even through Fíli's chain-mail sleeve.

"I don't understand," said the younger Dwarf in a whisper. "The whole point of the quest was to recover the Arkenstone. Bilbo came with us all this way, fought by our sides. He is our friend, why would he betray us like this?"

Fíli looked to the side, watching on as Thorin walked back and forth along the ledge and cried out in a way that he had never done out of battle. The chain-mail he'd been wearing earlier was now hidden under gilded plate armor, which was adorned with intricate black ravens on pauldrons that were just barely visible under a fine fur mantle. On his brow rested the ornate battle-crown of Thrór; and though his hands were covered by jointed gauntlets, Fíli could see that they were shaking and clutching.

"Perhaps he didn't see it as a betrayal," said Fíli under his breath.

"What, then?"

Fíli shook his head. "Go get your arrows," he said. "I have a feeling you're going to need them."

Kíli let go of his arm, then backed away; and though Fíli listened to his brother run down the passageway behind him, his eyes remained on their uncle.

The Arkenstone was the whole purpose of the Company's journey, it was the one thing that Thorin sought above all else – and yet Bilbo felt it was better to give Thorin's prize to the Elves than to the Dwarf to whom it rightfully belonged. Was he trying to force a peaceful resolution? Was it now to be a hostage for negotiations?

Or maybe, Fíli thought, Bilbo had seen something else in the light of the Arkenstone; something that Thorin, himself, had failed to see. Something that now compelled the Dwarf-king to stand behind a hastily-constructed barricade and cry down to the leaders of two besieging armies that he was prepared to defend his crumbling kingdom with a force of only thirteen.

_Maybe it wasn't a betrayal, but a mercy, _thought Fíli. _Maybe Bilbo saw the madness coming on, maybe he was trying to stay it. And if that madness comes with the rule of this kingdom, if it isn't in the blood…_

Footsteps grew near behind him, and he turned to see his brother fastening his gifted Elvish quiver to his back.

"Ready, then?" asked Fíli, composing himself.

"Ready enough," said Kíli; then he looked at Fíli curiously. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Why?"

Kíli shrugged slightly, then joined the others on the ledge; and Fíli took a step forward, as well, reaching up as he did to push aside an errant hair he felt brushing against his cheek. His fingers came away wet, and he stared at them for a moment before heading out into the sunlight.

Behind the barricade, Thorin had stopped pacing and was now grasping the stone before him with one hand, while the other tightly gripped the hilt of his sheathed sword.

"I will make no deals with Elves at my doorstep," he bellowed. "Send them away and I may _consider_ your offer."

Fíli stepped to the edge and looked over, and far below he saw that Thranduil was standing next to Bard in silence. Somehow, that only seemed to make Thorin more angry, and he again began walking back and forth behind the barricade. His eyes shifted up into the distance, and suddenly he stopped and turned back to the Company, grinning crookedly.

"He's come."

"Who?" asked Balin, straining to look around his old friend. "Who has come?"

Thorin moved aside so the others could see what he had seen — an army of Dwarves, riding their great rams around the base of the Mountain.

"Dáin!" said Dwalin. "How did..?"

"I wasn't certain if any of the Ravens of the Mountain still lived," said Thorin, seemingly pleased with himself. "Or if any that did live still spoke. So I made arrangements with a swift messenger before we left Laketown. A promise of payment should he get a message to Dáin with all haste."

"And that promise of payment," said Balin, "do you intend to honor it?"

"I knew he would come if I called for him," said Thorin, ignoring Balin's question.

A rush of heat rose into Fíli's chest. "You anticipated the need for an army? Even before the dragon was dealt with?"

Balin tapped his finger on the stone in front of Thorin. "Dáin said he would not come until you had possession of the Arkenstone."

"Yes," said Thorin, the corner of his mouth curling up. "Yes, that is what he said."

"You _lied_ to him," said Fíli, raising his voice. "That's why he came... you told him you _already_ had it."

Thorin spun around to his nephew. "I _did_ have it," he yelled. "It was as good as in my hands, but for that… _thief_! That traitor halfling! I should have thrown him to the wargs!"

"He saved your life, Uncle," said Kíli. "He saved _all_ our lives..."

Thorin gripped the back of Kíli's neck and pulled him close. "To further his own ends," he said. "He had to get here to take what was mine, and he needed me alive to do that. He'd have left me to Azog if he had felt it served his purpose."

Without considering his actions, Fíli dropped his axe and grabbed Thorin by the elbow, then pried his fingers off of Kíli's neck with the other hand. The younger Dwarf fell onto the stone floor and slid himself away from his uncle until his back hit the wall behind him; and Thorin wrenched his arm out of Fíli's hold, then drew his sword and pointed it at him.

"Do not touch me," he warned; and though his nephew raised his hands in acquiescence, still Thorin did not lower his weapon.

"Thorin!" yelled Balin. "Think about what you are doing!"

"You…" said Thorin, still speaking to Fíli. "You do not yet know the… burden…" His words, as well as his sword-arm began to falter, and he lowered the blade until the tip touched the stones at his feet. "Someday _you_ will be king…" he repeated the words he had said to Fíli in Laketown, "and then you will understand."

Fíli glanced over at his brother, who had been helped to standing by Bofur and was now rubbing his neck where Thorin had gripped him.

"Understand _what_?" asked Fíli, reaching down to pick up his dropped axe – carefully and almost in fear that Thorin would see the action as a threat. "What am I supposed to understand, Uncle?"

The muscles in Thorin's neck tensed, and his eyes glinted with moisture. "After all this time, after all these years, we have reclaimed our home," he said, his voice unsteady. "I will not allow it to be taken from us again. Never again..."

"They are not here for our home," said Balin, resting a reassuring touch on Thorin's shoulder. "They are here for our _help_."

Thorin looked over at him, then glanced from face to face as a terrible awareness appeared to come over him. He stumbled back and lost the grip on his sword, which clattered noisily to the stones, then he reached up and placed his shaking hands on either side of his head for a moment before letting them fall to his sides.

"It's not too late to end this," said Balin. "Call down for negotiations. Have words with Bard. He is a good and honorable Man. He will listen."

"And what of the Elves?" asked Thorin. "They are neither so good, nor so honorable. Thranduil would have the Arkenstone and every jewel in the Mountain before he would stand down."

Balin opened his mouth, but before he could speak again there came a great commotion from below and the blowing of many horns; and Thorin bent over and picked up his sword, then spun around to the barricade.

"Those are Dwarf horns," he said, looking over the stones.

"That will be Dáin's call to arms," said Dwalin. "He must have already given his challenge. He will not have taken the news of the Arkenstone's theft lightly."

As the Company looked down, however, they did not see the standoff that they had expected. Instead, the three gathered armies—Dwarves, Elves, and Men—were looking off to the distant hills, where a dark mass was making its way low across the sky.

"What is that?" asked Glóin, squinting. "A flock of birds?"

Dori shook his head. "No… no, it's a cloud," he said. "_Isn't_ it?"

"Clouds don't move like that," Glóin huffed.

"It _is_ a cloud," said Thorin, narrowing his eyes. "But it's not _natural_. There's something... something odd about it..."

As they watched, the mass spread out across the sky over the hills, then made its way towards the Mountain. The Dwarves, save Thorin and Fíli, backed away from the barricade, watching on as a darkness first swallowed up Dale then creeped closer to the Gate of Erebor.

"How near will it come?" asked Ori fearfully.

Suddenly, someone below yelled out in alarm. Fíli looked from the cloud down to the now-darkened hill below it, and he could just barely see swift-moving figures jerking and jostling against one another as they swarmed over the ridge.

"Goblins!" he yelled, and the other Dwarves all rushed back to the barricade.

Dwalin tightened his jaw. "Those are mountain goblins. Come to revenge the death of their king, no doubt."

"There is something else at work here," said Balin, looking up at the cloud that now spread out infinitely above them. "Goblins travel best under darkened skies, but they don't have the power to conjure such a thing."

"Who, then, is aiding them?" asked Thorin.

Above them, the cloud began to churn, then from it issued a shrill cry. Bifur threw his palms over his ears and glowered towards the sky, screaming out a curse in Khuzdul, and a second later they all heard the rushing of wind as a swarm of massive wide-winged bats plunged out of the roiling cloud.

The Dwarves all ducked and dodged the attacks, then they drew their weapons and started fending off the creatures. Bifur yelled again as he jumped atop the barricade and took a mighty swing with his boar-spear, hitting a bat with the broad blade and sending it, screeching and bloody, to the stones at Dwalin's feet.

The winged creatures gathered together into what looked like a black whirlwind before moving away from the Gate and down towards the people below. There, they swirled and dashed in an immense cyclone, then spread out into a low shrieking mass before reforming into a whirlwind and making their way first to one group, then another.

Bofur reached up and pulled Bifur off the barricade, then kicked the dead bat. "Where did those beasts come from?"

"They aren't doing much damage," said Balin with a shake of his head. "Not much use for…"

"For more than a distraction," Thorin finished for him.

He and the others looked back out into the distance, where they could see that the goblin vanguard had clashed with the Men at the furthest edge of the camp. It seemed that the goblins were already losing, though, as a great number of them had broken off and run to the south.

"I suppose they didn't expect three armies to be waiting for them," said Dwalin.

"Let them run away," said Glóin. "The Elves' arrows will find them easily enough."

Thorin leaned further forward. "They aren't running away," he said. "They're circling back around."

Fíli looked and saw for himself that Thorin was right; but he could not understand the purpose of their maneuvering, nor the presence of the bats, until he looked back to the northwest and there saw a greater threat gathering on the ridge.

"Wargs!" he yelled; then he leaned over the barricade and screamed out to the people far below. "Orcs on wargs!"

Thranduil and Bard both looked up at him, then back to where he was pointing, and as one they drew their swords.

"Gundabad orcs!" growled Dwalin. "Hundreds of them!"

Thorin grabbed Fíli's arm, pulling him back from the barricade. "Stay down," he warned. "Don't give the Elves a clear shot at you."

"It is not the _Elves_ we need to fear," said Fíli, shaking off his grip.

"We will be safe here," Thorin told him, his tone weakening. "In our home."

By now, the unnatural darkness had deepened, and though most of the Company dared to step forward and look down towards the growing battle, they could see little below them. Still, shock crossed their faces with the steadily-growing noises that rose up — the screeching of bats, the howling of wargs, the screams of dying men, the clinking of Elven steel on orc armor, the bellowing of Dwarven battle-cries cut short.

Kíli looked over at Thorin. "Uncle, will we do nothing?" he asked, fixing an arrow to his bowstring.

Thorin remained staunchly silent; and Fíli looked at Kíli, whose jaw was set though his hands were shaking. Fíli turned again to Thorin and lowered his voice. "You told me that when I became king I would understand the meaning behind your actions," he said. "Tell me, what does _this_ mean? Will we let them all die? Even our own kin?"

"The Dwarves of the Iron Hills are well-armored, prepared for battle," said Thorin, looking at the staring faces all around him. "We are only thirteen."

Balin nodded. "Aye. But thirteen of the best."

The snarling of a warg just over the edge of the barricade brought everyone's attention around; but as the beast and its rider dared to leap over the stone, Kíli loosed his prepared Elvish arrow, which slid easily through the warg's head and into the orc's chest, then both fell from sight.

Thorin smiled at him. "Well done."

Kíli offered a weak smile of his own, then nocked another arrow.

"The fight is coming to us!" said Dwalin as he leaned over the ramparts. He stepped to the side, then with all his strength shoved a massive stone from the top of the barricade. There came the sound of crashing, then a screech as the rock crushed an invader somewhere not so far below. "The Gate will not be any safer for us than the field if we wait much longer!"

"What shall it be, then?" asked Balin of Thorin. "One last battle?"

Thorin held up his sword and stared at the blade, then turned to his twelve companions and nodded. "One last time."

"Set to cast down the wall, lads!" cried Dwalin. "Let us give them a hard welcome!"

The Dwarves, needing no further urging, all stepped up to the barricade and set their hands on it. Thorin alone remained standing on the doorstep; and after a quiet moment, he reached out to Fíli, taking him by the arm and pulling him back.

"Listen…" he said, low enough for only his nephew to hear. "If, by chance… if the battle goes ill…" He stopped and swallowed hard. "Recover the Arkenstone and take command."

Fíli felt a visceral shock. "Uncle…"

"It's your right," said Thorin, resting his hand on Fíli's armored chest. "I chose you as my heir for a reason, Fíli... it's in your blood to rule our people, and I would have no one else rule in my stead."

_What else is in our blood?_ thought Fíli; though the pleading expression on his uncle's face warned him against asking. He nodded and turned towards the barricade, but Thorin pulled him back again.

"Take care of yourself," he said; then he looked at Kíli before leaning close to Fíli once more. "And your brother. Keep him safe."

"I will."

Thorin let go of Fíli, then glanced at the smashed Gate behind him. "It was nice," he said, smiling ruefully. "Being home."

Fíli lowered his head slightly, then the pair stepped over to the hastily-constructed rampart with the other Dwarves. There Dwalin and Balin stepped aside to allow Thorin between them as Fíli sidled up to his brother, who had slung his bow over his shoulder.

"Stay with me," said Fíli, setting his axe on the ground at his feet.

"I always have," Kíli returned.

Signaled then by a nod from Thorin, the Company pushed against the barricade. The stones scraped and ground against one another, then fell away and tumbled down and out of sight, and Thorin jumped atop the remains of the rampart and held his sword aloft.

"_Du Bekâr_!", he commanded, and all of the others took up their weapons. Thorin spared them each a glance, then drew in a deep breath and looked at the Battle below. "_Baruk Khazâd_!" he cried, then leaped off the stones and began the charge down the side of the Mountain; and without a moment of hesitation, the others followed him headlong into the fray.


	4. The Field Of Battle

**Chapter Four**

**THE FIELD OF BATTLE**

**The Battle is joined, and while death surrounds them, Fíli and Kíli still fight side-by-side. But as the danger increases and Kíli's wounded leg begins to fail, Fíli finds himself wishing that, just this once, his brother had stayed behind.**

* * *

Kíli wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be somewhere safe, somewhere far from war. He wasn't supposed to be down on one knee, clutching at an injured leg with one hand and wielding an ancient sword in the other. He needed shelter, rest, time to heal.

Here, on the field before the Gate of Erebor, there was no shelter; and the only rest to be had were the scant few breaths drawn in between attacks. Here, there was no healing, only fresh wounds and old ones being reopened; and Fíli wished desperately that Kíli had listened when he'd told him it would be best for him to remain at the Lake.

...

_Fíli glanced around at Laketown's survivors, who were setting up a camp on the shore where they could tend their wounded; then he turned to his brother and shook his head. "Stay with Bard's children for a couple days," he said, his voice low. "You can join us when we're sure everything is well at the Mountain."_

_Kíli tilted his chin up defiantly. "Are you afraid I'll slow you down, as well?"_

_"It's just... your leg is still healing. The long march could..."_

_"I'm coming with you. Even if I have to follow a mile behind."_

_"For once, do as you're told!" said Fíli; then he again looked around at the gathered Men and softened his tone. "You've been through enough already."_

_The hurt in his brother's eyes was palpable. "So, the King has spoken, then?"_

_"Kíli, don't... I'm not..." Fíli stammered, his heart sinking in his chest. "Listen... if Thorin and the others..."_

_"If they're dead, then we're going to find out together," said Kíli. "But they're alive! We both know that. They're waiting for us." He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We're going home, Fíli, and we're going together, like we always swore we would."_

_Fíli looked down at his brother's bandaged leg. "I also swore that I wouldn't let anything happen to you," he said, tightening his jaw. "And we don't know what lies between us and the Mountain."_

_"The dragon is dead." said Kíli, smiling wide. "Where's the danger?"_

...

"Get up!" yelled Fíli, reaching down and pulling his brother roughly onto his feet. "We're not done yet!"

Kíli squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm fine... I was just trying to get a better angle."

His knees buckled, but he managed to stay standing; then he turned and drew his Dwarvish blade across the face of a lunging goblin. The creature fell to the ground, screaming and scratching at its sliced cheek, and Fíli swung wide with his great-axe, taking off its head.

"Keep your eyes open!" scolded Fíli; then he added, more quietly, "You're going to get yourself killed..."

After their unplanned charge from the Mountain, the Company had come at the enemy as a more-or-less solid wall of armor and blade; but after several minutes of being rushed by wargs and dived at by swirling mobs of bats, they had become separated. By some chance, Fíli and Kíli had managed to stay together and were now fighting the enemy back-to-back, with each scanning the battlefield ahead of them and to their own left sides – and though more than once Kíli had nearly missed an oncoming threat, he and Fíli had so far been able to handle whatever had come their way.

Around them, familiar faces darted in and out of view among the sea of strangers. On one side Fíli spotted Dori swinging wildly with his broadsword; then on the other he heard Dwalin's mighty battle-cry, and turned just in time to see him dispatch yet another invader. He even imagined that he'd caught a glimpse of Gandalf's grey hair above the crowd once or twice; but the thought passed quickly, as they hadn't seen the old wizard since entering Mirkwood.

In fact, of the members of the Company that Fíli knew were at the Mountain, the only one that he hadn't yet seen was Bilbo; and he hoped that he hadn't already fallen victim to the snapping jaws of some vicious warg or been carried off by one of the monstrous bats still circling overhead. The mithril armor Thorin had given him would certainly be some help, Fíli knew, but even that would not stop the flight of an orcish arrow aimed at the halfling's head.

"Alright, then?" Fíli called over his shoulder to his brother.

"Perfect!"

"Watch your flank!"

Kíli grunted as he thrust his sword into a warg's gut. "Watch your own!"

A movement at the edge of Fíli's vision brought his attention around; and as he spun about, he sank his axe blade into a leaping goblin's skull. The creature fell to the ground, jerking violently, and the Dwarf reached down and pulled the spear out of its twitching fingers. He thrust the weapon at a distant warg, missing it by a hairsbreadth; and at that moment he caught sight of another warg's great open maw on his right, where Kíli should have been defending. He turned to face off the attack, but the beast let out a guttural growl and fell dead at his feet.

Fíli looked to the side, expecting to see that Kíli had dealt the killing blow; but he instead saw his brother staring slack-jawed at the Elvenking, who was standing next to him in burnished armor and holding a finely-etched sword in his pale hand. Too stunned to speak, Fíli gave the Elf a stiff nod of thanks; and Thranduil lowered his head slightly in return, though his face remained impassive.

The Battle closed in again, and–whether because he felt some kindred with fellow nobility, or because he believed that the young princes were incapable of properly defending themselves–Thranduil did not immediately leave their sides. And while the brothers cut roughly into the enemies that came their way, the Elvenking's more deliberate movements dispatched several that were making for their flank – and so the ranks of enemies immediately around them thinned.

In the lull, Fíli found himself marveling at Thranduil's fighting style, as jarringly different as it was from his own. That extended, even, to the disparate races' weapons – their craftsmanship, and how they were wielded.

Those weapons preferred by the Dwarves were undeniably tools. They tended to be heavy and sturdy and strong, and were meant for drawing back hard and driving the enemy into the ground with pure force. But being heavy meant, also, that they were slow – though they were balanced in such a way that if a Dwarf missed on the first swing, they would come back around twice as hard to land an even more devastating blow.

By contrast, Elven weapons were like curved and delicate extensions of their own lithe bodies, and they _never_ missed. Elves didn't feint or second-guess their attacks, needed no battle-cries to ready their hearts, and no twist of the hand or shrug of the shoulder was meaningless. It seemed, in fact, that despite their claims of being lovers of peace, the Elves of the Woodland Realm were born to war.

"My Lord!" a fine, clear voice came unexpectedly from off to Fíli's right; and he turned to see Tauriel breaking through crowd. "My Lord Thranduil!"

The Elf-maid held a long silver knife in one hand and her bow in the other; and unlike the other Elves on the field, who were more heavily armored, she wore still the same green cloth outfit as she had when the Dwarves had last seen her. As she ran near, she spun around and drew her blade across the neck of a diving bat, cleanly severing its head; then she turned back to her king, ignoring the headless beast flapping at her feet.

"Your son sent me to find you!"

All at once, the stoicism fell from Thranduil's face. "Is he safe?"

"Yes," said Tauriel, giving Kíli a brief glance. "He is with with the Dwarf Lord, Dáin. They are planning a strike against the warg-riding forces on the Southern Spur."

"Where are they?"

"The guard-post at Ravenhill." She slid her knife into its sheath and tilted her head toward the Dwarves. "By your leave, I will remain here."

Thranduil's eyes narrowed, then his gaze locked with Fíli's for a moment before he turned to the south and disappeared into the melee. As Fíli watched him go, an arrow slid through the air just in front of his face and he jumped back, then he heard the moaning of a struck orc. He watched as the creature fell to the ground; then he looked to Tauriel, who had nocked and loosed an arrow before the Dwarf had even noticed the approaching enemy.

"Good shot," he said, silently scolding himself for missing the threat.

"For an Elf," added Kíli with a small grin.

Tauriel turned in a circle, checking for more nearby enemies; then she came back around to Fíli's side. "An easy shot for anyone with skill," she said, smiling wryly as she pulled the arrow out of the dead orc and set it again to the string.

Kíli laughed. "Was that an insult?"

"I think it was," said Fíli.

Tauriel turned her back to the two brothers, forming a triangle of defense with them, and as she surveyed the battle before her she spoke over her shoulder to Kíli. "What are you doing here? You're not yet fully healed."

"Healed enough, thanks to you."

Tauriel released her arrow and it went through the head of a goblin some distance in front of Kíli. Its raised hand dropped the spear it had been preparing to throw, then it fell to the ground, itself.

"Keep your eyes open!" she said.

"That's what _I_ told him!" said Fíli, smiling crookedly.

"What are _you_ doing here?" returned Kíli. "I thought you rode off somewhere with... what was his name, again?"

"_Legolas_," said Fíli.

He pulled his axe back and swung it hard at a goblin, splitting its chest open; and he only realized that he had come almost too close to Tauriel's head on his backswing when he saw her stand up from ducking beneath it.

"We came as soon as we were able," Tauriel answered, seemingly ignoring the near-miss.

"That's a good thing," said Fíli. "We can really use the help right now."

"Why? Everything appears to be going well!"

The Elf-maid returned the bow to her back and drew out her twin daggers, then sprinted some distance in front of Kíli. Lowering herself to a knee, she looked up, and a moment later, a goblin-ridden warg pushed through the crowd and leaped above her. She ducked down and thrust upward with one blade, cutting through the beast's belly before rolling aside to keep from being landed on. The goblin fell off its back, screeching, but she silenced it with a slice across the throat and ran swiftly back to the Dwarves' sides.

"I could have handled it," said Kíli.

"You didn't see it coming," Tauriel told him. "I did."

"That's one reason to keep lanky Elf-folk around," Fíli joked. "They can see above the crowd!"

"I suppose you could have taken him out at the knees," said Tauriel.

Fíli smiled a bit, surprised to find that he truly enjoyed having an Elf by his side in battle. There was something in Tauriel's manner, though, that made it seem as if she was neither so old nor so experienced as the fair-haired Elvish nobles. She was still graceful, still thorough – but _rougher_, somehow. It wouldn't have surprised Fíli to see her kick a downed enemy, or to use the string of her finely-curved bow to strangle one to death.

But she had yet to do either of those things–or any other such crude maneuvers–and despite her restrained bluntness, she maintained her people's water-like flow in everything she did on the battlefield. The Dwarves she was fighting beside were, by comparison, more like boulders tumbling down a mountainside – hard and indiscriminate, crushing any enemies that failed to get out of the way.

All at once, the attacks around them abated as a group of ram-riding Iron Hills Dwarves moved in their direction. At their vanguard was a particularly well-kitted-out Dwarf–doubtless one of Dáin's lieutenants–sitting atop a giant war-boar and holding aloft a spiked halberd. The Dwarves pounded through the enemy ranks, crushing several goblins under their mounts' weight, then they began stabbing their lances into the heads of the ones that were still standing.

With the platoon's presence, the surrounding enemy's attentions were drawn away, allowing the trio of defenders a chance to regroup; and Fíli remained on-guard while Tauriel searched the body-covered ground and pulled the arrows out of several nearby dead goblins.

Kíli, meanwhile, bent over to pick up his own bow, which he had been using as a makeshift shield until it had been knocked from his grip. He let out a moan as he struggled to stand up straight; then he lurched forward, falling onto his hands and knees. Tauriel and Fíli both reached over to help him stand, but he pushed them away.

"I'm fine," he grunted, pulling himself to his feet.

Tauriel looked down and her eyes widened. "Have you been hit?"

Fíli turned his attention down, as well, and saw a red puddle spreading out on the dirt below them. He followed the trail of blood to where it was seeping past the armor plates protecting Kíli's thigh and knee; then he looked at his brother's face, where pale skin peeked past hair that was curled with dirt and sweat across his forehead.

"Kíli?"

"It's nothing," the younger Dwarf said, gripping both his bow and sword tightly. "I moved wrong and it tore."

"If you don't rest, your leg won't heal," said Tauriel. "You shouldn't even be in battle yet."

Kíli groaned again, this time apparently out of frustration. "You sound like my mother..."

Tauriel gave him a smile. "I would take that as a compliment."

"You should," said Fíli.

"She has always been over-protective," said Kíli. "Like a couple _other_ people I know."

"Perhaps one day I will get to meet her and tell her you said so," said Tauriel.

Fíli laughed. "I'm sure she'll return to the Mountain once it's been _redecorated_. Although I don't think she would care for an Elf coming to dinner!"

"She might," said Kíli, shrugging, "if Tauriel brought wine!"

Their throng of allies soon moved on, and the battle was rejoined when a few pursuing goblins decided that they would rather face off against the three lone defenders than follow after the mounted patrol. That turned out to be the goblins' mistake, as Fíli dug his axe into the neck of the first one that came near, then kicked it away and leaned over, picking up its dropped sword. He threw the weapon towards a larger enemy that was charging in his direction, and the orc fell back dead when the blade went through its eye.

Past where the creature had been, Fíli spotted a riderless warg bent over and snapping, and he was shocked to see that Nori was kneeling in front of it. He had his axe in-hand and was swinging it wildly at the beast, and just behind him lay Ori, bloody and unconscious on the ground.

Nori pulled his hand back and took a wide swipe at the warg; but it jumped aside, then snapped at him again, closing its mouth just before it would have sunk its teeth into the Dwarf's skull. Its muzzle hit him hard on the head and he was knocked onto the ground, his axe tumbling from his grip – but rather than leaving Ori's side to retrieve the weapon, Nori turned his back to the warg and positioned himself over his brother, lowering his head and sheltering Ori's body with his own.

Fíli cried out and rushed towards them, not waiting to see if his companions were going to join the charge, and as he went he reached down and pulled a shield off a dead orc. He swung it out in front of himself and slammed into the warg, and both of them fell over from the impact.

Though dazed, Fíli rose to his knees in front of the other Dwarves and held his shield and axe above them protectively; but the warg was barely able to regain its own footing before Tauriel ran up and sank her dagger deep into its gullet. It thrashed around, trying to howl past the blade, managing only a gurgling splutter; then Kíli thrust his own sword through fur and bone into its head. It fell to the ground, twitching, then lay still; and Kíli ripped his sword out of its skull while Tauriel slid her own blade out of its throat with ease.

With the immediate threat gone, Fíli dropped his axe and shield; then he turned around and grabbed the older Dwarf by the arm.

"Let him go, Nori!" he yelled, pulling back on him. "Let me see him!"

Nori looked up, the expression on his face a mix of fear and determination; but when he realized who was there, his stiffened shoulders relaxed and he released Ori. Moving to the side, he bumped against Tauriel's leg, and she helped him to his feet before resuming her guard.

"Are you hurt?" asked Kíli, likewise taking a defensive stance.

Nori didn't answer, but bent down and picked up his fallen axe with an unsteady hand, then drew his now-frayed eyebrows together. A gush of blood flowed from a fresh gash on his forehead, and he seemed not to notice as it coursed down his cheek, through his mustache, and over his shaking and parted lips.

"Is he alright?" he asked, his voice quavering. "Is he alive?"

Fíli placed a hand on his young friend's bloody temple. "Ori... can you hear me?"

The younger Dwarf blinked and mumbled something, then took a deep breath and fell silent.

Nori kneeled and touched the top of his brother's head. "Ori? Open your eyes now, alright..?" he said, and to Fíli's ears it sounded like pleading. "We have to get him out of here."

Fíli motioned towards the Mountain. "The Gate will be the safest place."

Tauriel turned to Kíli for a moment, then she sheathed her knives. "I will take him," she said, leaning over and lifting Ori in her arms. "I will return as soon as I can."

She shifted Ori's head onto her shoulder, then glanced one more time at Kíli before making her way towards the Mountain. Nori ran on ahead of her, clearing the way with his black-splattered axe, and after they had vanished from sight, Fíli grabbed his own axe and shield off the ground and stood as the battle once more closed in around him and his brother.

By now, evening was coming on and the cloud-laden sky had darkened even further; and the goblins, emboldened by the fading light, were screaming viciously as they threw themselves at the Dwarves. With each swing, Fíli's axe grew heavier in his hand, and more and more he found himself needing to use his orc-shield to block blows that, earlier in the day, the enemy would not have been able to get close enough to land.

Over his shoulder, he could see that Kíli was still standing; though his own, lighter weapon was slowing just as Fíli's great-axe was. A few times, the younger Dwarf had leaned back against his brother, then pushed forward again and continued the fight, and Fíli did not need to look to know that Kíli was still losing blood from the wound on his leg. He would need to get off the battlefield soon; and so Fíli decided that when Tauriel returned, they would bring him to safety – even if it meant dragging him, kicking and screaming, to the Gate.

More time passed, though, and the Battle deepened, and still Tauriel did not come back. Fíli felt a moment of worry for her, but that was all he could afford before his thoughts were pulled back to the escalating fight. Each goblin now seemed to be bringing two more after it, and there was nothing except a roiling sea of red-splattered green and grey faces all around them and a hill of black-gushing bodies at their feet.

All at once, Kíli let out a yell; and with the bloodshed now blurring his mind, Fíli could not tell if it was one of alarm or pain. He slammed his shield into the face of a charging orc, knocking it to the ground, then he spun around to his brother.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Thorin!"

Fíli searched the area for their uncle, but Kíli took off running. After a few seconds of confusion, Fíli started after him; and after slicing open the head of a warg that his brother had managed to slide past, his eyes were drawn to where Thorin, just barely visible past a large boulder on the battlefield, was standing up against three goblins.

They were all coming in at him from the front with their dirty spears, which glided ineffectually off his already orc-blood-splattered plating, and they were leaping about like mice evading a cat. But though Fíli and his brother knew well their uncle's abilities, and so knew he wouldn't have any problem with these smaller foes, Kíli still pushed his way through the melee towards him as Fíli cried out for him to slow down.

It would, of course, be best for them to fight by Thorin's side; but the speed that Kíli was making for him, even despite his wounded leg, was a dangerous one. In Fíli's racing mind, he imagined his brother running full-force into a goblin's spear, or failing to duck beneath an ally's blade. If Kíli would just stop for a moment, they could fight their way over to their uncle together, in relative safety.

"Kíli! Wait!" Fíli yelled; but a gap in the crowd ahead gave him a better view, and he felt a jolt in his chest.

Some distance away, tall atop his white warg, Azog was making for the Dwarf-king's back. The giant orc shook with what may have been laughter, then he leaned over and said something to his beast. Apparently urged on by his words, the warg sprung forward as Azog held his great mace out to the side, readying it to strike.


	5. With Shield And Body

**Chapter Five**

**WITH SHIELD AND BODY  
**

**Bloody and fierce, the fighting goes on - but for a few, the Battle is over.**

* * *

_**NOTE: While this story is rather violent in general, this chapter in particular has a few pretty graphic moments. Please read with care!**_

* * *

Gathering his strength, Fíli quickened his pace and caught up to Kíli, and together they screamed out to their uncle. Thorin swiftly cut the legs out from under one of the goblins bearing down on him before looking towards his nephews, then he began to turn to where they were frantically motioning – but the warning had come too late.

Azog swung his weapon, hitting Thorin dead-center of his back and sending him sprawling onto the ground. The Dwarf-king's sword flew from his grip and the two remaining goblins jumped on him and started thrusting their spears into every gap they could find in his armor. With great effort, he rolled onto his back and the goblins tumbled to the side; then they leaped onto his chest and stabbed at him again.

Prompted by Azog, the white warg stalked over to Thorin and reared up, sending the goblins skittering away, then the beast came down hard and dug its claws into the space where the Dwarf's chest-piece had been forced aside by the goblins' spears. A burst of blood from Thorin's side coated the warg's paw, and the pale orc bared his teeth in a wide smile as he leaned forward, encouraging his mount to step down harder.

A moment later, Kíli broke through the mass of combatants and thrust at the warg's neck with his Dwarvish blade, and the metal slid through white fur and skin, sinking deep into the muscle. The animal howled in pain and stumbled to the side, yanking the weapon out of Kíli's hand, then it threw its head forward and hit his armored chest, knocking him to the ground beside Thorin. The warg's throes caught Azog off guard and he dropped his mace, instead gripping the fur on the warg's neck to keep himself from falling as it stumbled, howling and gnashing, away from the Dwarves.

Their enemy thus distracted, Fíli struck next, running forward with all the speed he could muster and slamming his shield against the warg's side, as he had done with the one that had been attacking Nori and Ori. But this time it was like he had run full-force into a stone wall. The collision jarred him, knocking the air from his lungs, and he felt burning in his left elbow where it had struck against the metal.

Shaking off the shock of impact, he dropped the shield and took up his great-axe in both hands, wincing at the new pain in his arm. He swung down hard, and though he was now aiming at Azog, the warg's jerky movements instead sent the edge of the blade deep into its own flank. Fíli twisted the axe out of the animal's flesh, then again raised it to strike the rider; but before he could carry through, Azog reached down with his freed hand and grabbed Fíli by his throat, lifting him off his feet.

The axe fell from Fíli's grasp and he began clawing uselessly at the orc's grip; then, somewhere past the new ringing in his ears, he heard his own name being screamed out. Just barely on the edge of his darkening vision, Fíli saw his brother crouching over Thorin with his short bow held out in front of him, nocking one of his last Elvish arrows.

Azog swung the captive Dwarf out to protect himself from the oncoming attack, and Fíli closed his eyes, hoping the orc's foul tactic wouldn't stop Kíli from taking the shot. All at once, the warg snarled and howled, then it jerked suddenly and was silenced. At the same moment, a searing pain passed just below Fíli's already injured elbow, and the pale orc roared as they both fell to the side, hitting the ground hard.

The steel grip loosened and Fíli rolled away, coughing and fighting for breath, then he climbed weakly to his knees and pressed a hand to the fresh wound on his arm. The edges of his vision lightened and he looked up, expecting to see Azog coming at him again; but the orc was instead kneeling by his now-dead warg, running his hand along its neck almost gently. The beast had a trickling hole in the top of its head, and the Elvish arrow that had both killed it and sliced Fíli's arm was now lodged between the ribs on the giant orc's right side.

After a moment of what might have been mourning over his fallen mount, Azog stood up and pulled at the arrow, tearing it out of his flesh and throwing it to the ground; then he bent down and picked up his mace and turned to Kíli. The young Dwarf was setting his last arrow to his bowstring, and beside him Thorin lifted his head weakly then lowered it again to the ground. Kíli looked over at him, and Azog bounded forward.

"No..." said Fíli, barely whispering; then he found his voice and called out louder, "Kíli!"

Azog lifted his mace into the air, and Kíli spun back around to him and released – and the arrow struck the orc in the thigh, stopping him in mid-stride. Fíli took this chance to reach down and pull out the parrying dagger he had strapped to his leg, then he lunged ahead, digging the blade into Azog's belly and twisting hard.

The orc let out a howl of pain and anger, but the mace still remained tight in his grip, and he took another giant step towards Kíli and kicked him hard in the center of his chest, sending him onto the ground some distance behind Thorin. He then turned towards Fíli and lifted his weapon high above his head.

The Dwarf dropped to a knee and shifted half-away, preparing to dodge the strike – but it wasn't the blow of a heavy mace that hit him.

There came sudden pressure on the right side of the nape of his neck, and saw a flash of light – and at once it felt as if his head was bathed in fire. His knees left the ground and his feet followed, then flames seemed to burst from the back of his head and traveled down his spine; and somehow, past the pain and shock, Fíli realized that one of the spikes on Azog's clawed limb had pierced his scalp and skull, and that he was being hoisted off the ground like a deer on a skinning-hook.

With trembling, blood-slicked hands, Fíli tried to reach back to get a hold on Azog's metal arm, but the orc shook him hard and his back arched; he tasted salt and iron flowing over his tongue, then Azog shook him again and his arms went numb and fell to his sides. The pain moved deeper and both his spine and lungs began to burn, and he could not cry out against it.

Fíli tried to force himself to breathe, but his own weight was pulling him down, and the extension of his neck stopped the air at the top of his throat. His body started to jerk as it begged for breath, and the sharpened tip of Azog's curved claw scraped against the inside of his skull.

Cracked glass closed in on the edges of his vision, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he waited for the spike to tear completely through and send him crashing to the ground. But it _didn't_ tear through, and from somewhere far away in the darkness, he heard Kíli again call out his name.

_...Run..._ Fíli thought; the word echoing in his slowing mind. _...Run..._

Then, without warning, Fíli was wrenched to the side. He heard a sickening crunch and felt the metal slide out of his head, and for a moment the world vanished around him; then it rushed back in with a painful jolt as his back hit something hard. He fell again and dirt flew up into his mouth and eyes as the shock of impact on his chest forced them open.

For a few seconds he lay with his face on the ground, breathing in air that was now as thick as water in his lungs, then he watched the darkness slowly fade from his vision. At last, some small bit of strength returned and he lifted his head, but as he did, he heard himself scream. It was only after the sound had faded that he felt the pain again seize the deep and vicious wound at the back of his skull, and he shut his eyes once more.

Thick, gritty blood flowed past his parted lips, but he couldn't spit it away. It coursed down his throat and he choked, biting back another scream as he looked up; and through dust-filled, watering eyes, he could see that Azog was stalking towards where Thorin now kneeled. The Dwarf-king had his head lowered, and all at once he leaned forward and pounded the ground with his fist – and Fíli could then see that his uncle was bent over Kíli, who was lying still as a stone on the ground.

A desperate fear hit Fíli and he tried to call out, to warn his uncle about Azog's approach, but his voice was stuck with the blood in his throat. He climbed painfully to his knees, then willed himself to stand; though he managed only a single step before his legs gave out beneath him. He landed hard on his hands and knees, and his left arm folded under him as pain traveled from his twisted elbow to his shoulder; and he pressed the weakened arm to his chest and began to crawl towards his uncle and brother, heedless of the dead all around him and the fighting still at-hand.

Thorin let loose with a furious scream, and Fíli froze and watched on as his uncle grabbed a fallen spear off the ground and stood, shaking with rage.

"Azog!" he screamed out, glaring at his enemy.

The orc halted, then tilted his head down. "_Torin undag Train-ob_," he said, his tone mocking. "_Rani Khozdil._" He laughed deeply, then bounded forward.

The Dwarf-king held the spear out in front of himself and lunged ahead, as well, thrusting the serrated blade at his adversary's face; but Azog lifted his mace, blocking the blow with ease. The orc stepped to the side and swung out at Thorin with his clawed hand, and the Dwarf lurched forward and the sharpened metal missed his flesh, though the limb itself struck his head and he fell to his knees.

Azog pulled back his mace again while Thorin raised the spear, and the orc's heavy weapon snapped the shaft and struck Thorin where the chain-mail was now exposed at his ribs. Thorin's side appeared to collapse in with the impact and he flew sideways onto the ground, then did not move.

Fíli stared at him for a few breaths; but though he feared for Thorin and wished to help him in some way, he knew he would not be able to do a thing in his defense when he could not even stand. But _Kíli_ – he could get to _him_, at least. He could wake him, tell him to get off the field, order him to get to safety. And so he continued to crawl towards his brother.

Somehow, even with so many others still fighting near them, the movement brought Azog's attention back around. He started again towards Fíli, but as he stepped past Thorin, the Dwarf-king rose to his knees; and with what seemed like a final burst of energy, he drew back the snapped spear that he still had in-hand and thrust upward with all the force he could manage.

The blade cut through Azog's back, then burst out of his chest with a sickening spray of flesh and orcish blood. Azog cried out viciously and swung around with his mace, striking Thorin on the side of his head and sending him spinning to the battlefield; then he dropped his weapon and clutched at the spear-head that still stuck out from his chest. Black blood seeped through his white fingers and an expression of shock and rage crossed his scarred face.

The blow might well have been a killing one, but when Azog looked back over at Fíli with furious eyes, the young Dwarf knew that the orc's death would not come soon enough to save him from his own. Despite the gushing wound, Azog took several great steps forward; and still, Fíli's fingers grasped at the dirt as he continued crawling towards where Kíli lay.

Azog raised his claw and Fíli lowered his head; but instead of the strike he was expecting, he heard a mighty growling and the stomping of heavy feet nearby. He painfully looked up and to his right, and there he saw Azog locked in battle with a giant black bear.

_...Beorn..._

What the skin-changer was doing in the middle of this war, Fíli couldn't tell; and neither did it matter. He had drawn Azog's attention, and in doing so had given Fíli the chance to crawl the last few painful yards to his brother's side.

Once there, Fíli lifted himself up onto his knees, but a sick sensation rose up in his stomach and he bent over against it. With the motion came another wave of burning from his neck to the base of his spine, and his head began to throb. His hands clenched, then fell open feebly; and a few raspy breaths later, the pain eased a bit and the movement returned to his fingers, and he reached up with his uninjured arm to take hold of the edge of Kíli's armor.

_...Come on..._ he thought, unable to speak past his swiftly-swelling throat. He shook his brother gently. _...Get up..._

Fíli pulled himself closer and looked into his brother's ashen face. A trickle of thick blood had begun to fall from the corner of Kíli's pale and parted lips, but it no longer flowed from whatever wound had borne it; and though the searing in Fíli's spine began to grow again and his heart trembled in his chest, he could not look away from Kíli's soft brown eyes as they stared blankly towards the leaden sky.

_...No... please... wake up..._

He released his grip on his brother's armor and carefully slid his hand beneath Kíli's head; then he stopped, his veins running cold when he felt the bones in Kíli's neck scrape and grind together under his touch.

_...No... no, please... Kíli, please..._ He drew his shaking hand out and placed it on Kíli's cooling cheek. _...Don't do this..._

Tears gathered in Fíli's eyes and he gasped for air; then a spasm hit his back, arching it. His gut turned and lights flashed in his vision, and he stiffened for a moment before his muscles loosened and he fell hard across Kíli's chest. His body went limp then, and he found that he couldn't move, even to blink, as he stared towards where his uncle lay on the battlefield.

But he could still feel everything – every pain, from his sliced and twisted elbow to his pierced skull; and his slack body pulled down on his already-burning spine, extending it to the point where he felt as if he might tear in two. Blood trickled down his swollen throat and he could not cough it away, while more flowed from his mouth and pooled around his cheek where it lay atop his brother's cold and dented armor.

Nearby, the battle still raged; but closer than the sound of steel-on-steel were the growls of the two giants in combat. Just out of sight, Azog screamed something that Fíli could not understand, then came a sound like the snapping of a large tree branch. Just from the corner of his eye, he saw the bear stalk into view with the orc's limp body clutched between its teeth.

Beorn dropped his kill to the ground, then let out a ferocious roar before moving to Thorin's side. He stopped next to him and bent over, sniffing, and the Dwarf-king tried weakly to grasp at the bear's fur, but his strength failed him and his arm fell back to his side.

_...He's alive..._ Fíli thought, finding some small comfort in that, despite all else.

Thorin beckoned feebly for the skin-changer to come closer, and Beorn did so, twitching his ears as if listening. Whatever Thorin said, the bear must have understood, as Beorn then rose up onto his hind-legs and looked across the battlefield; then he dropped back down onto all fours and made his way to where the younger Dwarves lay.

He sniffed at Kíli, then lowered his head and wrapped his teeth gently around his plated arm, shaking him. Beorn let go and growled low as he sniffed him again before walking around behind Fíli, who felt a hot burst of air on the wound on the back of his head. A moment later something slid between the brothers; and though Fíli's mind told him to cling to Kíli, he could not keep what he now realized was a great paw from separating them.

Fíli's body ached and burned as the bear flipped him onto his back, but still his limbs were loose, his eyes fixed open. Beorn batted at him with his paw and scratched his claws across the armor that covered his chest, then nudged Fíli's cheek with his muzzle. The Dwarf's head rolled to the side, towards Kíli, then he felt the great paw batting at his pained left elbow.

Beorn walked around to the other side of Kíli and lowered his face, once more looking into Fíli's eyes.

It seemed to Fíli that the skin-changer was not as certain of his fate as he was of Kíli's; but whatever small signs of life remained in him, Beorn did not see. He growled almost mournfully, then turned and walked back towards where Thorin lay. Fíli could no longer see his uncle on the ground past his brother's face, but Beorn was large and remained in view, and Fíli watched as the bear stood up on his hind-feet and looked in the direction of the Mountain.

He lowered himself back down, but the next moment he rose again, and Fíli saw that he now held Thorin in his giant arm and was pressing him protectively to his chest. Beorn then turned towards the Gate and bounded out of sight, leaving the brothers–dead and dying–behind on the battlefield.


	6. Life Signs

**Chapter Six**

**LIFE SIGNS**

**As the Battle nears its end, Fíli finds himself counted among the dead.**

* * *

After the great bear made its way out of Fíli's sight, the world seemed to slow around him; and though air still flowed soft and slow past his lips, he couldn't feel it filling his lungs. Any moment now, he told himself, those fragile breaths would fail, then his heart and mind would slow, and the pain would melt away.

Yet the pain from Fíli's wounds already seemed faint and distant next to the hurt he felt in knowing that Kíli had died while trying to save him. The younger Dwarf's arrows had all been spent, he knew, and so he must have rushed at the giant orc with his sword drawn. But Azog's reach was greater than Kíli's own, and his mace had struck him, shattering his neck before he could even get close.

Fíli didn't want that sacrifice to be in vain. He wanted to pull himself back onto his feet, to take up arms, to protect those of his allies that still fought on. He wanted to force the enemy back into whatever holes they had crawled out of. He wanted to live just long enough to see the Battle's end, and to then bid his friends and what was left of his kin _farewell_.

And more than that, he wanted to reach out to _Kíli_, to hold him close as he had when they were children - the elder brother protecting the younger from the nightmares that had woken him. He wanted to tell him that the evil things he saw in his dreams weren't real, and that the sun would soon rise and chase away whatever monsters still lingered.

But still he lay frozen on the ground, listening on as as Dwarves and Elves and Men fell all around him; and in his wavering thoughts, he tried to comfort _himself_ with the knowledge that if he _did_ have to die, at least it would be by his brother's side - at least Kíli's face would be the last thing he saw before the world went dark.

_...Wait for me, Kíli... I won't be long..._

He felt his heart beat reluctantly and weak against his ribs, and he wondered then how long it had taken for Kíli's own heart to stop beating. Had it been as sudden as the swing of Azog's mace? Had he lasted for those few minutes before Fíli could get to him? Had he lingered in fear and helplessness until the end, as Fíli himself now did?

Time trickled past, and still the battle raged; and from the corner of his fixed-open eyes, Fíli watched enemies and allies alike rushing around madly. He heard the clash of iron on shield somewhere nearby, then he felt a jolt of fire in his neck and spine as someone tripped over his shoulder. The Man fell to the ground before scrambling off, and slowly the stinging in Fíli's back eased, though the wound on his head still burned and his elbow felt like someone was twisting it out of joint.

_...The pain will be gone soon..._ he thought; then he turned his mind back to Kíli. _...Won't it?..._

The sky behind the pervasive cloud darkened, and with the onset of evening the goblins' savage screams redoubled. Close at hand, one such scream was cut short, then the creature fell, gurgling and lurching, over the Dwarves' legs. It jerked for a few moments before becoming suddenly still, and Fíli felt warmth spreading on his shin where the goblin's blood was seeping past the joins of his leg plating.

Fíli's own blood had stopped dripping down his still-swollen throat some time ago, though he wasn't sure if that meant the wound was healing, or if his heart had slowed to the point where it could no longer push the blood from his body. But his airway was sticky and half-closed, and as the goblin stopped moving atop his legs, his throat seized up. His breathing stopped suddenly, and his eyes darkened at the corners and spots danced before them; then his slow breaths returned and his vision lightened, though past Kíli's face he could still see black shapes moving against the distant charcoal grey sky.

_...More bats..._ he told himself.

As the shapes became more clear and distinct, however, he realized that they were not moving like the war-bats that had attacked earlier that day. Those had gathered together in tight, reeling spirals, flapping and screeching and dashing; while these were gliding in great, graceful circles on high.

As he watched and wondered, the creatures moved up into the clouds, then moments after the last vanished from sight they dove back out. Only now there were a great many more of them, and as they plunged towards the earth they unfurled their vast wings and spread away from each other over the battlefield.

Somewhere past the noise of combat, a small voice called out, then others joined in, until at last hundreds of defenders were crying that the eagles had come. Fíli would have smiled then, remembering what easy work the great birds had made of the orcs and wargs at their last encounter, and he wondered what had brought them around this time.

Had they been following the goblins all the way from the Misty Mountains? Did the Elves have secret ways with them? Could they smell the blood, even from so great a distance?

Whatever it had been, like Beorn's appearance, they were a gift. Morale was bolstered and battle-cries rose up from the lips of nearby Dwarves and Men as the eagles swooped down over the valley, grabbing goblins in their sickled talons and dashing them back to the ground. A snarling warg came near to the brothers, with its face turned towards the sky. It leaped up and Fíli felt a rush of wind from an approaching eagle's wings, then a giant open beak came into view and the warg was gone.

And so it continued for many long minutes as the tide of battle turned. How many orcs, goblins, and wargs the eagles gutted and how many were just dropped to their deaths, there was no way to tell; but steadily the sounds of fighting lessened even as the smell of blood increased.

Not so far away, Dwarven voices began laughing heartily as Men cheered and Elves proclaimed victory. The nearby screeching of the eagles began to drift away, though wargs still howled and orcs still roared in anger from some distant place. Running feet made their way past as Elves, Men, and Dwarves chased down their last remaining enemies; then the silence on the battlefield grew until at last there were no more voices, eagle-cries, or dying gasps to be heard close at hand.

_...Looks like we won, Kíli... a little late, but still..._

"Those are Thorin's kin," a vaguely familiar voice spoke up from nearby; and in Fíli's shock, it took him a moment to recognize it as belonging to Thranduil's son. "Check them."

The dead goblin was lifted off Fíli's legs and he heard its body hit the ground, and a moment later a slim, old hand moved into view and fingers were pressed Kíli's throat. They felt around for a moment, then the hand moved to his face and his half-closed eyelids were opened more.

"This one is dead," a soft, though gravelly female voice replied. "Has been, for quite some time."

Fíli felt a jolt in his chest.

"And the other?" asked Legolas.

The Woman's hand touched Fíli's face and turned it towards the sky, then the silver-haired stranger looked deep into his eyes as she placed a pair of shaking fingers to his neck. She pressed harder for a few seconds before drawing her eyebrows together, deepening the wrinkles on her dirty forehead.

"Does he live?" the Elf pressed.

The old Woman shook her head slowly. "No."

_...Look closer..._ Fíli thought, hoping still that his brother's death hadn't been for nothing. _...I'm breathing..._

Legolas stepped into view above him; and Fíli could see that, like Tauriel, he was wearing the same thin and simple Elvish clothing as he had been on the Lake. It seemed, then, that the two of them _had_ come as soon as they had been able, and that neither seemed to have wasted any time in donning heavier armor, as Thranduil and his soldiers had done.

The lack of greater protection seemed not to have done the prince any harm, though his fair hair was tousled and his face was streaked with black blood. But there was also a strange sadness and deep worry in his blue eyes - and while Fíli was sure that it was not for him and his brother, he hoped that nothing had happened to either Thranduil or Tauriel that might have brought such a troubled look to the Elf's ageless face.

"Then we must leave them," said Legolas softly after few seconds of silent staring; then he looked off into the distance. "Now come. A group of orcs have turned to the south, and we must catch them before they get too far."

He spared the Dwarves another glance, then he let out a long breath as he turned away and moved out of Fíli's sight; though the old Woman remained kneeling by Fíli's side, looking deep into his eyes.

_...I'm still here... __can't you see?..._

Legolas called out to her again; and she pursed her lips for a moment before standing with a grunt - and only then did Fíli see a frightful gash across the front of her ill-fitting leather cuirass. She bowed her head as she backed away, then Fíli and his brother were left alone once more.

But still Fíli's thoughts lingered on her ragged face, and he wondered if she had marched in with the Men. Or, he thought, perhaps she and some other Women had seen the battle from afar and had made the swift journey from the Lake to defend their sons and fathers and brothers; and the thought hit him that many of the _Men_ he saw fighting that day may well have been daughters and mothers and sisters.

As Fíli stared up in forced stillness, the pervasive black cloud overhead drifted off - apparently having been released from whatever spell that had been holding it there. Lighter, swift-moving clouds appeared much higher in the sky, blocking out patches of starlight, and once in a while sliding in front of the moon and dipping the area into a deeper darkness.

Before long, a frigid breeze began to blow in from the north; and though it froze him, Fíli could not shiver off the cold that now worked through his body. The chill and exhaustion soon took full hold, and blackness pushed in at the edges of his vision as his thoughts began to fade into a haze - and he couldn't tell if it was death or sleep taking him until he fell into a dream.

...

_Brilliant yellow light shone all around Fíli, flaring out from torches and braziers, and reflecting blindingly off the shifting gold. And there in the midst of it, Thorin still searched, still dug, still clawed at the treasure beneath him. _

_Unsure why, Fíli fell to his own knees before his uncle and began to rake his fingers through the piles of recovered wealth. Pushing aside what he now felt were useless baubles, he uncovered the chest-piece of a gleaming set of armor; then the dunes of gold and gems all around began to fall away. _

_Up from underneath them rose first his brother's gilded body, then more and more dead. He stood, watching as Dwarves, Elves, and Men appeared at his feet - all lifeless, all shining as if they were coated with molten gold._

_Fíli looked over to see Thorin still kneeling, though he was now staring at his nephew's hands and smiling softly. Fíli turned his eyes to his own cupped palms and found that he could not draw his gaze away from the bright, pulsating stone he now held - a stone that looked as if it had been born of the stars, themselves._

...

"...Is anybody out there..?"

The voice had come from somewhere in the waking world, and Fíli felt himself inhale deeply. A jolt in his chest brought him fully back around, and as his vision returned he could see that the sky above was overcast again, though this cloud was whiter and seemed altogether more wholesome than the one that had descended on the Mountain hours before.

He was now desperately cold, though the deep numbness in his fingertips and face was doing nothing to help ease the burning throughout his body; and despite his gasp, the only movement he could now feel was the air that slowly passed his lips - and even that he wasn't sure was his own breath or the winter breeze on his face.

"Anybody?" the voice called again. "Can anybody hear me?"

It was a quavering, heartsick, familiar voice; and joy made Fíli's heart beat harder for a moment before it settled back to near-stillness.

_...Bofur..._

"If you can't speak... if you can hear us at all, try to move," Balin spoke up after him; and Fíli felt a brief rush of warmth in his chest with the knowledge that at least two of the Company still lived. "Just try to let us know you're out there!"

"We'll see you..." Bofur went on, his voice cracking. "...Anybody?"

Fíli knew from the tone of their calls that they had not found so many survivors as they had hoped. He wanted desperately to speak up then, to raise his arm, to let Balin and Bofur know that he was still alive; but his voice still would not come, and his hand remained stock-still at his side.

Even so, Bofur shouted out in alarm; then footsteps ran near, and a moment later he fell to his knees beside the brothers. He leaned over them and Fíli could see that his face was bloody, though white streaks cut through the red, marking the path of many tears that must have fallen since the Battle's end.

"No... no! Please... come on, lads... please..."

He ran his fingers frantically over Fíli's cheek and down to his neck; then his brow furrowed and his chin began to shake, and he turned aside. He must have then checked Kíli, as it was only a few seconds later that all traces of hope seemed to fall from Bofur's eyes. Fresh tears coursed down his cheeks, and he wrapped his hands around the back of his own head and lowered his face.

_...It's alright... _Fíli thought, still feeling the need to ease his friend's mind. _...It's alright..._

Balin limped up behind Bofur and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I... I had hoped..." the older Dwarf said haltingly, then he closed his eyes for a few seconds before going on. "I had hoped that he was wrong."

_...He?... _Fíli thought, wondering who Balin had been speaking of. Legolas, perhaps? Beorn, back in Man form? Had Thorin lived long enough to say that he had seen his nephews fall?

"We have to go," said Balin after a moment of silence. "There are still survivors to be found. There _must_ be."

Bofur placed a palm on Fíli's brow. "We can't just leave them here," he said. "We should bring them to the Gate..."

"And we will, but it would be no respect to them if we let others die in the meantime. Gloin and Bifur... and Bilbo... and so many others may still live. We should try to find them, if we can."

_...Find them..._ Fíli thought. _...Please... just find them..._

"We'll return for the..." Balin went on, but the words faded from his lips. "We'll return for the lads soon."

Bofur nodded slowly, and after a few heavy breaths he struggled to his feet, then turned and stepped out of view. A few seconds later, Fíli heard his voice again calling out for the still-living - though now it seemed thinner somehow, weaker and even more weary.

Balin remained standing over the brothers and watched him go; then he fell to his knees and pressed his hands to his eyes. Fíli then realized that his old friend had been trying to keep his composure for Bofur's sake, trying to give him strength when Balin had, in fact, lost his own. But even an old soldier could not forever hold in the grieving.

He lowered his hands from his face and leaned over, and Fíli felt warm tears fall on his cheek as their foreheads touched; then Balin turned to Kíli and did the same to him before sitting back. He reached out to move the hair off of Fíli's bloody cheek, and the younger Dwarf caught the faint smell of kingsfoil on his hand. It was likely that he had left in the middle of his own healing to seek out survivors, Fíli knew; and perhaps it had been receiving word of Fíli and Kíli falling that had drawn him up, and urged him back onto the field.

"You... you _are_ your father's son," said Balin softly. "He looked just the same when..." He stopped and took a deep breath; then his rough fingers eased Fíli's eyes shut. "I suppose it is a blessing, in a way, that you left this world as yourself. But I just... I know you would have been a fine king."

_...A fine king..._ Fíli's own thoughts echoed; and he realized with a sinking ache in his chest that he was thinking those words bitterly. _...Like Thorin... like Thror..._

Fíli's left arm was shifted and a shock of pain moved up from his elbow to his shoulder, but it eased when he felt his palm being placed against his brother's own.

"Together to the last," said Balin, choking on the words. "I will return to Ered Luin and tell your mother, myself. She should hear it from... " His broken voice trailed off, and he drew in another ragged breath. "She wanted you to stay home, you know. She wanted you to be safe. She said you were too... you were just too young to be here. She was right. Bless her... she was right."

As Balin spoke, Fíli felt a cloth being draped over his face; and with it came an even stronger scent of kingsfoil, as if the fabric had served as a sachet for the dried and ground herb. Though his breaths were shallow, Fíli felt the same rush of energy in his body as when Tauriel had steeped the kingsfoil in boiling water at Bard's home; but it did nothing more than warm his lungs, and though he felt a bit stronger in will, still he could not move or breathe any deeper.

"Balin!" Bofur called out suddenly from far away.

There was a shuffling sound as Balin stood. "What is it?" he hollered back, clearing the sadness from his own voice. "Have you found someone?"

"It's Bifur!" Bofur cried. "Come quick!"

Balin's limping steps ran off in the direction of Bofur's voice. "Is he alive?" he yelled; but whatever answer the other Dwarf had to give was too low to hear.

_...She wanted you to stay home... she wanted you to be safe..._ Balin repeated in Fíli's mind after his footsteps faded. _...Just too young to be here..._

Those words had been meant for Kíli, he knew, not for himself.

Kíli was the one that their mother worried about, he was the one that she had always said was _too young_ \- too young to drink, too young to smoke, too young to go hunting. She had always made him promise to be careful when her sons went anywhere without her, and she had always made Fíli promise to bring his brother home safely. This most recent _adventure_ had been no different, though her warnings had been more dire, and her reluctance to allow Kíli to go had been far greater.

_"It is their right to help reclaim Erebor,"_ Thorin had said to her one night when they thought the brothers could not hear them. _"And their responsibility. As my heir, Fíli..."_

_"Fíli is ready, Kíli is not,"_ she had broken in.

_"You cannot keep him here forever, Dís. You need to let him go some time."_

_"He's too young, Thorin. He doesn't understand..."_

_"And he will never understand until he makes his way out into the world. You have taught him well, and he has become a fine archer. We could use that skill on the Road."_

_"It isn't the Road that I'm worried about - it's what is waiting at the end."_

Of course, they had expected a dragon at the end of the Road, not a war.

Not death.

Fíli imagined then that he heard a voice that was neither his mother nor his uncle whispering in his ear; and for a moment, it felt as if a touch had landed on his face. Then the blackness of sleep faded, and he realized that he had again drifted off.

He was still lying on his back on the field-still alone, save for the dead all around-and there was a bitter wind blowing over him. He could no longer feel the cloth on his face, nor could he smell the kingsfoil that had permeated it; and from that, he knew that the touch on his face had likely been a stiff gust taking the fabric away, and that the whispers must have been the wind in his ear.

And still the breeze blew steady and cold across his cheek and brow; and all at once, he felt himself shiver.

The shock of moving at all staggered him; and as he was gathering his thoughts and trying to make sense of what he had just felt, a sudden pain rushed up his left arm. When the wave passed, he realized that he was now loosely gripping Kíli, where earlier their palms had simply been resting together.

Fíli's fingers jerked, then clenched tight around his brother's hand; and a sting shot down from his elbow into his wrist. The unexpected movement and sudden ache made Fíli's shoulder cramp, then his head began to swim and his thoughts went black for what may have been a moment or may have been an hour.

When he came back to himself, he was still holding to his brother; but his lungs felt heavy and full now, and his heart was racing - and without warning or effort, his eyelids fluttered and opened.

_...Am I not dying?... _he thought, watching as his breath turned to fog above him. _...Why is this happening?..._

His dry tongue slid out past his parted lips, and he realized only then that he was parched with thirst. He tried to swallow, but his throat was still blood-sticky and swollen; so he instead eased his mouth shut and began to draw in chest-deep breaths through his nose. And so he remained for quite a while, staring up at the clouds rolling by, and not daring to move for fear of bringing back the paralysis that now seemed to be trying to release him.

After a time, an icy-cold rain began dripping on Fíli's face and into his eyes. He blinked it away, then allowed his mouth to open again, letting the water onto his tongue and washing what was left of the blood down his throat. He closed his eyes and listened to the steady, slow ticking of raindrops on his and Kíli's armor until it became instead a rushing hiss; then he choked and coughed when the rain worked its way into his nose and down his airway.

The spasms stung his back and ribs, and he grimaced against the pain; then he turned his head painfully to the side so to keep his nose clear. In a wry corner of his mind, he wondered at how he might have survived the Battle itself, just to drown in the rain afterwards - then the realization of that having been a real possibility when he was frozen on the ground not so long ago shattered the darkly humorous thought.

He opened his eyes, finding himself staring once more at Kíli's pale face; and at last he dared to try gripping his brother's hand again - and though Fíli's fingers were stiff and stung when he moved them, he did not stop until they were entwined with Kíli's own.

_...I don't think I can go with you just yet..._ he thought; though he cautiously considered that maybe this was just a temporary thing, and that his wounds might still claim him. _...Just don't get too far ahead of me..._

Still, Fíli's lungs burned less and less with each deepening breath; and he knew then that he was going to go on living, if only for a little while. Before long, he knew, his kinsmen would come to bring his and Kíli's bodies back to the Mountain; and he imagined the looks on their faces when they discovered him still breathing. But even as he wondered what he would say to them about how he had survived, his thoughts were drawn suddenly back to the moment.

He heard a deep, guttural noise rise up nearby; and though he at first thought it to be the moans of someone dying, he realized his mistake when the snarling muzzle of a warg came into view just past Kíli's face.


	7. Succession

**Chapter Seven**

**SUCCESSION**

**The fighting is over and the wounded are being healed; and Fíli listens on in pain and silence as his kin speak of the Arkenstone and the Rule of Erebor - and of the madness that comes with both.**

* * *

Fíli shut his eyes and ignored the pain in his arm as he squeezed his brother's hand tighter, willing away what he hoped was a dream or a lingering fear from the Battle he had just been through. But when he looked again, the beast was still there, and its maw now hung open as it lapped at the bloody water pooling on Kíli's dented armor.

Whether the warg had been left for dead on the battlefield or had been hiding amongst the rocks at the base of the Mountain, it had likely waited for what was left of the living to wander off so it could scavenge on those that hadn't survived - though he wondered fearfully if the creature had sensed some life in him, and so had instead decided that a live meal was more to its liking.

He breathed heavier and stared hard at the beast, trying to warn it away with his thoughts; but it seemed not to notice him and started to sniff at Kíli's cheek. All at once, Fíli felt his right hand begin to shake, and he stretched out his arm weakly, then forced what strength he could into his leg, managing at last to bend his knee. His cold fingertips brushed against the handle of the parrying dagger he had strapped to his calf, but pain shocked his back and neck, and he stopped suddenly; and the warg lifted its eyes and began to growl.

Fíli gritted his teeth as he forced himself to take hold of the weapon, then with a burst of will, he drew the dagger and screamed in his own mind as he swung his hand up and dug the blade into the creature's eye. The warg howled and leaped back, pawing at its face as it tried to dislodge the weapon; and Fíli looked to the ground beside him and grabbed hold of an orcish backsword lying there. The beast lunged at him and he pulled the blade across its throat. Thick black blood gushed onto Kíli's face as the warg lurched to the side, then it stumbled off and stopped some distance away, where it collapsed onto the ground and lay still.

Dropping the sword to the mud, Fíli laid back on the ground, closing his eyes. His mind began to lighten and his body to ache more as the burst of strength ebbed; and he lay quietly for many long minutes, just letting himself breathe. After a while, the cold rain began to ease, slowing to an occasional drip before finally stopping completely, and only then did he open his eyes again.

He lifted his hand to Kíli's cheek, so to wipe off the thick black blood that the rain had not washed away _...You slept through all that..._ he thought, smiling softly. _...Wait here for me..._

Stiffly, Fíli struggled to sitting, gritting his teeth against the burning throughout his body; then he rested his palm on the side of his brother's head and painfully leaned forward, placing his brow against Kíli's own. He slid his fingertips from Kíli's cold temple to his whiskered jawline before drawing his hand away and bringing himself up onto his knees; but a sick feeling rose into his stomach and it took him many long breaths before he could go any further.

With much effort and will, he was at long last able to get onto his feet; but when he thrust his arms out to give himself balance his left elbow burned and he instinctively pulled it back against his body. He staggered to the side as he nearly lost his footing, but he managed to stay standing despite the unsteadiness and pain.

Looking towards the Gate, he could now see the light from campfires and torches at the base of the Mountain, and in their illumination he could just make out the forms of many people milling around the outlines of tents. Barely able to lift his feet, he began shuffling in that direction, keeping his eyes down so as not to trip over any of the weapons or bodies littering the muddy ground; but not too many steps ahead, he stopped.

There, at his feet, lay the remains of Azog the Defiler. The giant orc's rigid face was twisted into an expression of rage, his pale eyes were open wide, and his leg was snapped and bent up under his scarred body. The fear that he had once instilled was gone from Fíli's mind, leaving behind only disgust and a lingering hate.

Fíli shifted his eyes up and along the shattered body until he saw that the end of the orc's metal arm was pulled nearly out of the stump of his elbow; then his hand began to shake again as his thoughts drifted to the moment, not so many hours before, that his skull had been pierced by one of those spikes. He lifted his hand to the back of his head and his fingertips brushed against the hole there, stinging it, then he pulled his hand back into view, expecting to see it covered with blood. But there was only a slight reddening on his fingers, and he curled them into a fist as he glared back down at the creature at his feet.

_...Was this... was all of this just to kill off the line of Durin?..._ he thought. He tightened his jaw, gathered his strength, and kicked at Azog's metal limb, tearing it completely out of the orc's dead flesh. _...You failed..._

Searing pain worked its way up his back as he tried to straighten his posture; and so he instead hunched over slightly, then he stepped around his fallen enemy and continued on towards the Mountain. He glanced from side to side, nodding approvingly as he passed by the torn and twisted remains of orcs, goblins, wargs, and bats; but his heart sank when he realized that there were as many of his allies dead as there were enemies.

More Elves lay among the fallen than Fíli had expected there to be; but there were still a greater number of dead Men and Dwarves, some of whom had been crushed by the weight of their own mounts when the animals had been killed. He stopped, looking over the speared remains of a giant war-boar - perhaps the same one, he thought, that he had seen one of the Dwarven lieutenants riding at the head of a section of the Iron Hills cavalry.

Just beside the boar lay also a dead warg, its jaws wrapped around the throat of a brown-haired Elf-maid. Her stiff hand still gripped the spear that she had driven through the beast's body, but which hadn't stopped it from crushing the life out of her, nonetheless. Her face was stoic and pale, and yet there was a lingering terror in her lifeless eyes.

He didn't know her, but he knew that she didn't deserve to die like that. Nobody deserved to die like that. But there they all were, lying on the battlefield around him - Elves, Dwarves, and Men; all of them cold and rigid, and with their last moments etched on their faces.

_...The will of kings..._ he thought; then he grimaced in shame. _...No... this was Azog's doing... this was..._

His mind began to race and his breathing grew fast and shallow, and for a moment he felt as if his balance would fail him again. Yet he stayed on his feet and pushed the ragged thoughts away, then he forced his eyes away from the Elf and continued on. He only wished now to get to the lights of the camp and, for a while, to put war and death behind him; and as he at last neared the Gate, the murmuring of many voices drifted on the breeze towards him.

Stopping just outside the reach of the firelight, he searched the crowd for faces he might know; but all he saw were strangers caught up in their own relief of being alive, and their grief for those who no longer were. Most were too busy to look up and see the young Dwarf approaching, others gave him a quick glance before carrying on with whatever business they were about - rushing in and out of tents, passing around skins full of drink, cradling their heads in their hands. Some were seated on the ground, crying; while others were lying beside them, unmoving.

An older Man sitting near one of the campfires gave a little yell of happiness and stood, holding his arms out to a young girl who was running in his direction. They grabbed one another and the Man lifted her right off her feet in his enthusiastic embrace, then he set her down on the ground again and buried his face into her hair as she began to cry.

Fíli watched them for a few moments, then looked over as a younger Man limped near him, bound on a task of his own. The Dwarf reached out and the boy fell back in a fright, his eyes wild with shock. It was clear enough that he was still fearing for his life, though the battle had ended hours ago; and Fíli held up his hand in a peaceful gesture and backed a step away. The stranger eyed him curiously, then stood on unsteady legs and stared long and hard at him.

"Are you hurt?" the boy asked, his voice almost too youthful to match the worry-worn expression on his face. "Do you need help?"

The continued swelling in Fíli's throat kept him silent, and so he simply shook his head. The young Man nodded at him, then scurried off, returning to whatever business he had been about before the Dwarf had stopped him. Fíli watched him go into a nearby tent, then he glanced off to the side.

There, butted up against the Mountain and just to the right of the Gate-path, a particularly large and well-lit tent had been set up; and outside it, billowing in the breeze, hung the blue banner of the Lake. He turned and made his way there, but when he got to the closed flap he stopped and listened. Several people within were caught up in low, intense conference; and though he couldn't hear much of what was being said, he imagined that he recognized some of the voices.

As he listened, though, a scream pierced the air. He turned swiftly-wincing at the pain in the top of his neck and fighting a sudden wave of dizziness-and there, not too far away, he saw the girl from a few minutes before. She was on her knees now, and the older Man she had been so happy to see lay on the ground next to her with his body limp and lifeless, his mouth gaped open, and his eyes bulging. The girl clutched at his chest, gathering the Man's tunic in her fingers, and revealing a livid swelling over the whole of his stomach.

The Man had bled to death on the inside, possibly while he had still been holding to the girl; and his passing had come so quickly that it had sent the her into a shock. A bloody-bearded Iron Hills Dwarf ran near and pulled her away from the body, then he fell to his own knees beside her and let her continue to scream and cry into the curve of his neck as a male Elf draped a cloth over the dead Man's face.

Fíli's head began to spin and his eyes blurred, and a heaviness settled into his chest as it felt as if someone had begun squeezing on his heart. He felt at once the desperate need to escape, to hide; and he looked around, searching for a quiet spot to sit and try not to think. But there were far too many people around him, and in every direction he turned he found pale, scared, bloodied faces.

His knees weakened and his pulse raced, and he stepped back from the flap and shook his head hard; then he stumbled to the corner of the tent and made his way around the back. There, sheltered from the biting wind and prying eyes, he sat down and leaned his head against a large boulder. He took several long, deep breaths; but though he tried to stay upright, his body pitched forward and he landed on his chest on the ground.

He tried to lift his cheek from the muddy gravel, but the wound on his head burned; and though his mind continued to spin and his heartbeat thrummed in his ear, he could still hear the voices from inside the tent - closer now, and more clear.

"We have not found any more alive," said one that was old and cracking with grief; and Fíli immediately recognized it as belonging to Balin. "And some we have not found at all."

"Then we should begin to gather the dead," a more robust, proud voice said.

"And what then, Lord Thranduil?" a rough, somewhat more familiar voice asked. "We cannot bury them all."

_...Thranduil?..._ Fíli thought. _...He's alive... of course he is..._

After a long, silent moment, the Elvenking spoke up again. "We must burn them."

"That is not our way," yet another voice spoke up - this one was clearly Dwarven, but altogether strange to Fíli.

"And yet we did so at Azanulbizar, Dáin, if you recall," said Balin. "Out of necessity, but with honor. I would rather our people be sent to ash and smoke than end up in the bellies of the carrion crows and scavengers because we took too long getting them under stone."

"Yes... yes, Cousin. You are right, of course."

"And should we separate the Elves and Dwarves?" the rough-voiced person-Bard, Fíli now realized-asked. "Is it better that..."

"No," Thranduil interrupted; then there was a pause before he went on. "My people and I came to this place seeking words with the Dwarves, that is true, but in battle, we were as one with them. If it is not opposed by the Dwarf-lords, then the remains of our dead may join their dead on the pyre."

"Our blood has already flowed together," said Balin. "What harm can there be, I wonder, to let our ashes do the same?"

"Then so shall those of the Men of the Lake," said Bard.

There was the sound of a rough throat being cleared, then Dáin spoke again. "Have you gotten any word of your son, Lord Thranduil?"

No one spoke for a time, then the Elf's voice raised - though not to answer the question. "We will take our enemies' remains far afield, so their smoke won't foul the air around the Mountain."

"Sledges shall be made with all haste to see to that," said Bard. "Lord Dáin, I would ask that we may make use of your surviving mounts to haul them."

"Of course."

"And when this is all over," said Balin, "some decisions will need to be made."

"If you are speaking about the distribution of the treasure," said Bard, "there are greater concerns at the..."

"I am speaking of a certain object that you have in your possession," Balin broke in.

"Yes, I see. It will, of course, be returned to you."

"Lord Bard and I are of the same mind," said Thranduil. "It belongs to the King Under The Mountain, whether he be dead or alive."

"Thorin lives yet," said Dáin.

"He is fading fast," Balin's shaky voice followed. "He will not see morning."

Fíli took in a deep breath, then forced himself onto his side, wondering now how many of his companions had survived thus far, how many would not last the coming days, how many would never be identified amongst the hundreds of bodies littering the valley floor.

"He is still King until his last breath," said Dáin indignantly.

"And _after_ he takes that last breath?" asked Balin. "What, then?"

They all fell quiet for a long moment; then Thranduil spoke. "This is a conversation that is best had between kin only," he said. "I shall see to the recovery."

"I'll join you," Bard said after him.

"Your pardon, before you leave, Bard..." said Balin. "I would ask if you might go and find Bofur inside the Gate, he could lead you to..." His voice trailed off.

"Yes?" pressed Bard.

"No... no, on second thought, Bofur has... well, he has other concerns on his mind at the moment. I will take you there, myself."

"Where?"

There was another pause. "To bring the young princes back to the Mountain," said Balin at last. "Go on ahead and tend to your business, I will join you soon."

_...The young princes?..._ Fíli thought, and it took him a moment to realize that Balin was speaking of him and his brother.

"As you wish," said Bard.

Fíli heard a shuffling like the flap of the canvas tent being opened as the Man left, presumably with Thranduil by his side.

Shortly afterwards, Balin spoke up again. "May I ask you something, Cousin?"

"By all means," said Dáin.

"When Thorin sent word to you, asking for you to bring your army to the Mountain, did he tell you that he already had possession of the Arkenstone?"

Fíli jumped at the word and sat up suddenly, despite his pain and weakness; then he pushed himself as far away from the tent as he was able, gasping when his head hit the large rock behind him. He reached back and pressed a palm to the wound there as he leaned forward and continued to listen in silence, though there were lights now dancing before his eyes and his ears had begun to ring.

"He did, yes," said Dáin.

"And so you came armed for battle because of that, alone?"

"I came because I was called for by the King."

"And, yet, you didn't come when he asked it of you a year ago. Why now?"

Heavy-booted footsteps began to pace around, and Fíli heard the _clang_ of metal against metal, then _chink_ of chainmail being shaken - as if one of the Dwarves within hadn't bothered to remove his armor after the Battle, and was only now doing so.

"That was a mistake on my part," he said, grunting. "I should have given my aid when he first asked for it, yes, but I feared for the failure of the attempt; I feared for the lives of my people, and for the entirety of Rhovanion if Smaug's wrath were to be kindled." He let out a rough breath. "I had hoped that without the support of an army, Thorin would decide not to go on his quest at all - that he would not risk his life and the lives of his kin for a trinket that would supposedly give him the right to rule a kingdom. I didn't account for his determination or his... stubbornness."

"Tell me, then," said Balin, "what should be done with that _trinket_ now that the dragon is dead and the Mountain is won?"

"It belongs to Thorin, as it did to his grandfather before him," answered Dáin. "He fought his way across the world for it; he would have died for it, had war not come at him from another side. I would have it remain with him, even in death."

"You have no desire for it at all, then?"

"None."

"Then I ask you, Dáin, Lord of the Iron Hills..." said Balin with an air of formality. "Would you take the throne? Would you see this kingdom restored under your rule?"

Fíli's eyes began to water and his stomach to ache, but still he could not bring himself to reveal that he was there, that he was alive; and that inability brought with it another wave of panic that he tried to force down with little success.

"Why mine?" asked Dáin. He sounded taken-aback. "Surely, _you_ would be..."

"_You_ are next in line of succession," said Balin, cutting him off. "You are in direct descent from Dáin the First, I am in descent from the younger line of Borin. You know this. You know that your claim is stronger than my own."

"Then let me ask _you_ something, Cousin," said Dáin. "If I _were_ to claim rule over this Mountain kingdom, would you remain by my side and offer me your counsel, as you did for Thorin?"

"Yes, of course." He exhaled sharply. "For all the good that counsel did him at the end."

"What do you mean?"

It took Balin a long to answer. "You are aware of the... the _fever_ that claimed Thror before the coming of the dragon?" he asked. Dáin didn't answer aloud, but Fíli assumed he had motioned that he did know of it, as Balin went on speaking. "It did not end with his death, nor with the loss of Thrain. It was falling on Thorin, as well, at the last. Now, there are some that believe the King's Jewel, itself, had poisoned their blood, but..."

_...Some that believe..._ Fíli thought. _...Some... meaning me, meaning you... _

"But what?" urged Dáin.

"But Thorin didn't have the Stone before the madness began to set in," said Balin at last. "I had seen its beginnings before we ever left Ered Luin, but he would not listen when I spoke of it. I began to fear for him. I feared, even, for his sister and her sons. Fíli... had he not died, he would have been next in line for the throne, you know."

Fíli squeezed his eyes shut.

"Yes, I had heard that Thorin had named him his heir. He only ever had good things to say about the boy."

"And of young Kíli, as well, I imagine."

"He spoke of him with great affection," said Dáin. "Mostly of how he was such a joy to have around. Thorin told me in his last letter that he wanted very much for both of them to be with him when he reclaimed Erebor."

Fíli's chest began to heave and he pressed the heel of his quivering right hand to his brow.

"Yes," said Balin softly. "But Fíli... he told me that he was, himself, worried about the sickness. He feared that it was too strong in his blood to overcome, though he'd never shown any trace of it in all his young years. I tried to tell him that when he came into succession he would not fall to it as his forefathers had, but in all honesty..."

"You worried still that he would?"

"He was so unlike his uncle," Balin's voice cracked. "But so was Thorin unlike his grandfather at the beginning."

The breath caught in Fíli's throat and he let his hand fall to his side; then he rested his head back against the rock again, this time ignoring the pain in his skull.

"There is no telling now, I suppose, what would have happened if the boy had not died," said Dáin. "But, as I told you, I put no claim on the Arkenstone, whether it is the instigator of a madness or just a pretty jewel. Thorin may have deemed it worth dying for, but I do not. It is a symbol of our people, but it is not worth _more_ than our people, and I would rather have it lie with Thorin in his tomb until the Mountain falls than have the desire for it again make this kingdom fail."

"And that right there makes you more worthy than any other who may now make claim on the throne," said Balin. "You have done well by your people in the Iron Hills, and you would do just as well by our people in the Lonely Mountain; and you are a fool, Dáin, if you yourself cannot see that."

Dáin laughed softly. "Perhaps I _have_ become a fool since we were young, Cousin, but you seem to have enough wisdom for the both of us. Regardless, whether or not I would take the throne is not for us alone to decide. Let the people speak, but only after the remains of war have been washed away. For now, we have wounded to tend to and dead to mourn."

The Dwarves in the tent continued speaking; but even as they did, Fíli's strength and resolve finally failed him and he slid sideways onto the cold, muddy ground. There he lay for a long while as his thoughts drifted, until at last he slipped into darkness.


	8. Awakening

**Chapter Eight**

**AWAKENING**

**Waking cold and alone the morning after the Battle, Fíli finds himself breathing in air that is heavy with the smell of smoke from the dead that now burn on the field between Erebor and Dale.**

* * *

_Fíli clawed at the burning piling as the dragon wheeled in the night sky overhead; and although he knew he was dreaming, he could still feel the flames as they licked his skin. _

_But this was not how it had happened. He and the others had gotten away - they had escaped, singed and soaked and choking on the smoke of the burning town. He should have been on the boat with them, they should have been making their way to safety. He looked around, searched for his friends and kin, listened for their voices amid the screams of strangers. And still he held on._

_The post he clung to grew hot and blackened; flames leapt out of the knots in the wood and singed his hair. He let go, took a deep breath, and pushed himself under. Looking up, he saw wavering red light as Smaug passed over again; then the water around him begin to churn and boil. _

_Past the muffled sound of piers and buildings crackling, he heard people crying out for help. His lungs began to burn, and though the world above was bathed in flames, he could not stay under for much longer. He kicked and struggled and swam, and at last his head broke the surface and he took a deep breath of smoky air. _

_Close-by, people cried and begged; laden boats jostled against one another, and some went down with all their passengers as the wooden beams of the nearby buildings collapsed onto them. Someone screamed out that the dragon was coming back around, and Fíli turned his face to the sky, watching as Smaug neared. _

_He did not this time get the chance to dive down, to escape. He felt the fire surround him, burn him. His vision darkened..._

_..._

Fíli gasped and his body jerked, but his eyes remained closed, even as the morning light tried to force its way in.

There was a heavy smell of smoke in the air, and for a moment he imagined that he was lying on the sandy bank of Long Lake, catching his breath as Esgaroth burned not so far away. Slowly, though, he realized that what he was smelling was not the earthiness of old wood kindled by dragonfire, but rather the acrid scent of bodies on a pyre.

He shifted his face on the cold ground, digging gravel into his cheek; then he cupped his right hand over his mouth and nose, but he could not keep out the smell. Past the ragged sound of his own breath in his palm, he began to hear voices. There were fewer now than there had been the night before, and they were distant and faint, and at least a little more calm.

Lowering his hand, he shifted his face again, then he let out a low moan as small rocks once more ground into his skin. A shock went down from the base of his skull and into his neck, and he drew in a quick breath between clenched teeth. He had likely been lying in the same position all night, he knew; and the lack of movement, as well as his wounds from the Battle and the weight of his armor, had made him stiff.

He opened his eyes partway then blinked hard, fighting the brightness of the late-morning sun that now cast a beam over the jagged ridges of the Mountain's spur. After a while, he could see that he _had_ moved in the night, as he was closer to the tent now, and the canvas eave was casting a deep shadow on all but his face; but though the tent was keeping most of the breeze off of him, and the sunlight was warming his brow, he still felt a chill.

After taking several deep breaths, Fíli pulled himself up to sitting. Immediately, his head began to throb and the back of his skull burned, and he leaned forward against it. Tears gathered in his eyes, and his ears began to hum almost painfully; then, slowly, the noise and discomfort eased and he dared to look up.

The sky was a clear, pale winter-blue, and the brightness was too much for Fíli to stare at for long; and so he instead looked to his left, towards where he knew the road leading into the Mountain must be. He saw there a great many large boulders and massive chunks of shattered stonework, and he knew that they must have been blocking him from the sight of anyone who might have come down the Gate-path. It seemed, then, that in his eagerness to escape from prying eyes in the hours before the dawn, he had managed to hide himself away almost too well.

He turned his face down again, and his attention fell on the patch of red where he had rested his head against the large stone the night before. Almost against his own will, he lifted his hand to the base of his skull and cautiously felt around the wound that Azog had left behind; then he withdrew his touch and examined his fingers, finding that the only blood there was already dry.

But even though he was no longer bleeding, he knew that he would have to get help soon - that he would have to seek out healing before his injuries caught up with him, as they had with the old Man the night before. He shuddered at the thought, then shifted carefully onto his knees; but the armor he wore felt like it had doubled in weight over the evening, and he could not rise to his feet.

Reaching over with his uninjured arm, he unfastened the leather straps that secured the chest-plate across his ribs; and after giving himself a moment to work up his strength, he gripped the edge of his armor and pulled it off, then dropped it to the ground.

He gasped and groaned as the burning in his neck and back grew worse; but most of the aching faded quickly, and it was soon easier for him to breathe and move. Still, he did not feel that he could yet stand, and so he slowly and painfully removed the rest of his armor, until all he wore were his trousers, boots, canvas shirt, and chain-mail tunic.

Gritting his teeth, he rubbed his searing left arm as he looked down at the dried blood that clogged the metal rings from his elbow to his wrist; then he curled his fingers into a loose fist and pressed his arm to his side. With most of his armor off, the cold air and ground chilled him more, and he was now even more eager to get out of the smoky air. He struggled to his feet, and after wobbling a bit on his unsteady legs, he stumbled to the front corner of the tent and looked around.

A couple of Iron Hills Dwarves were sitting by the fire where the old Man had died the night before; but the Man himself-as well as every other body that had been littering the camp-was gone. Most of the survivors, he figured, were probably now either helping with the burning of the dead or were ensconced in the many tents that were set up all around the base of the Mountain - healing or being healed, or simply being comforted until the end.

Looking past the camp, towards the ruins of Dale, he saw two columns of smoke cutting into the clear sky; and though he couldn't see the pyres, he knew what was burning on each. The closer of the two, which sat about halfway between the Gate and Dale, must have been from the remains of the defenders; while much further off to the north, their enemies burned. He found it odd how he would not have been able to tell the difference between the pyres, if not for the distances. He had figured that when the orcs and wargs and goblins burned, their smoke would have been darker and thicker, like their blood; he'd thought that it would have a foul, evil look to it.

As he stared at the smoke, his dream from the morning returned, and he saw in his mind the dragon swooping low overhead and spitting out fire; then he felt the heat burn his skin and heard the screams of the people who had nowhere to run. Shaking his head, he closed his watering eyes; but he saw then the charred faces of the dead tangled up in the scorched pilings of what had once been Esgaroth.

Too few of the Lakemen and their families had gotten away from Smaug's wrath, and too many of those that _had_ gotten away had ended up falling in battle before the smell of smoke had even left their clothing. They had escaped from the dragonfire, but still they burned; and that it was on a pyre, rather than in their homes, was small comfort.

Fíli forced his eyes open and saw the Dwarves by the campfire still caught up in conversation with one another, and he began to step towards them so to let himself be known; but as he made his way out of the tent's shadow, he stopped. The sound of rushing blood filled his ears and he moved back again, clutching at the canvas and trying his best to hide his face from the sunlight. His breaths grew fast and his heart began to pound hard against his ribs - and as his body tensed, he again felt the need to escape, to find a place to gather his thoughts and to calm himself.

He looked frantically back and forth for anyone who might be watching; then without stopping to think, he stepped around the edge of the tent and quickly slipped through the flap. There was no one else inside, though he had half expected Balin or Bofur or some other familiar person to be there. It did not, in fact, seem that it was even set up for a Dwarf's liking - and when he remembered that he had seen the banner of the Lake flying outside it the night before, he realized that this was likely Bard's tent, and that the disparate leaders had simply been using it as a meeting-place in the dark hours before dawn.

Someone had been sleeping there at some point, though, as in the corner there was a single cot set up with a rough woolen blanket spread out over it. A few half-opened crates lay on the dirt floor at the cot's foot; and on the opposite side of the tent, a wash basin and a polished brass ewer sat on a small table. A few more crates were stacked near it; and while some were opened and had been rummaged trough, others were still nailed shut. To the side of the center tent pole, he saw that there had once been a small fire - but it was now no more than dying embers with a steaming pot set atop it and a number of wet, blood-stained rags on the dirt nearby.

Nothing else cluttered the space, save a pile of cast-off armor and weapons near the front corner; and to this Fíli turned with interest when he saw Balin's chest-piece and his black-splattered mace amid the dented plate and bloody chain-mail. Bofur's mattock and the heavy helmet that Dori had been wearing at the start of the Battle were there as well - but it was those things that were missing that bothered Fíli the most.

Even as he gently nudged the armor aside with his foot, he saw nothing that had belonged to any of the other members of the Company. He hoped, at least, that Tauriel had managed to keep Nori and Ori safe; and Dwalin and Gloin were more doughty, so he was sure that they would not have fallen easily. Óin and Bombur and Bifur's conditions worried him greatly, though, and he cautiously reminded himself that just because Dori's helmet was there, it did not mean he had been alive when it had been removed from him. And of Bilbo's fate, he barely managed to hold out any hope at all.

Out of all the members of the Company, however, he was certain only of Kíli's death; then his jaw slacked and his knees weakened as he realized that his uncle was now also to be counted among the dead.

Fíli's thoughts began to race and flashes like lightning dashed across his vision, then the fingers on his left hand clenched tightly and a sting worked its way up to his elbow. A sick feeling rose in his empty stomach, and he spun quickly away from the piled armor.

Despite the wave of dizziness, he managed to stay on his feet and stumbled towards the table that held the basin and brass ewer; and there, he placed his right hand on the strong wood for support and pressed his injured left arm to his body. He stood up as straight as he could manage, but his back spasmed painfully and he dug his fingernails into the table as sweat began to course down his face.

The chain-mail shirt he wore felt suddenly heavier, and he steadied himself and let go of the table, then reached back with his now-shaking right hand and grabbed hold of the collar. Though it felt as if broken glass was being ground into the skin of his left elbow, he tugged hard on the shirt, pulling it off; then he threw it to the side as he looked at the ripped, bloody sleeve of his dark-brown linen tunic.

Biting down on his tongue, he pushed the cuff above his elbow; and after the following wave of pain passed, he relaxed his stiffened shoulders and dared to examine the wound. There was too much blood there to see it well, so he dipped his right hand into the water basin, dissolving the dirt and what was left of the warg's thick black blood off of his skin; then he took a palmful of water and ran it over his elbow, drawing in a sharp breath against the sting. When the blood and dirt had melted away, he was relieved to see that the slice from Kíli's arrow wasn't actually as deep or as vicious as he had feared - though it was red and swollen, and the jagged edges of his torn skin were darkened.

The elbow itself was livid; though whether he had broken the bone when he'd slammed his shield into Azog's warg, or if it was just a deep bruise, he could not tell. He extended his arm as best he could, then bent his elbow a few times, doing his best to ignore the pain and stiffness.

_Maybe not broken... _he thought; then he remembered suddenly the wound on the back of his head. _Not the worst I have to deal with right now._

Resting his left hand carefully on the table, he slid his right hand back into the basin, then brought up a handful of water and splashed it over his face. The cold wetness shocked him a bit, and his tongue slipped out past his lips as the now-salty water flowed over them, reminding him of how very thirsty he was. He wiped his forearm across his brow and eyes, then looked into the dirty basin water.

Whether or not it had been clean before, it was certainly now unfit for drinking; and so he instead turned his attention to the brass ewer. He lifted it and examined the contents. The water within was clear and smelled fresh, and he eagerly placed the spout to his lips and tilted it up. The cold water flowed welcomingly over his tongue; but when he tried to swallow, his throat seized up and he began to choke.

He slammed the pitcher back down on the table and stumbled back, then he leaned forward and let the water run back out of his mouth and onto the dirt floor. He began to cough hard, his spine and neck burning with each spasm; then his throat closed tighter as lights again danced before his eyes.

Lurching ahead, Fíli collapsed to his knees and leaned forward, resting his brow on the edge of the table and clearing his throat against the stronger itch and ache. After a few ragged breaths, he lifted his head and his sight fell on the ewer, which was now just inches away from him; and in its polished brass surface, he saw reflected a strange and distorted face.

The eyes that stared back at him were his own, he knew; but they were sunken and bloodshot. His hair hung in ragged and bloody strands over his pale forehead, his once-braided mustache was frayed and stringy, and a great purple bruise covered the right side of his neck. He looked rough, lost, feral; a casualty, tired and torn.

The sight made Fíli falter back, then he fell over onto his left side and his temple hit the ground hard. The lights returned, brighter now, and his thoughts rushed past as his breaths again grew shallow and fast. He pressed his right hand against his now-aching chest, as if trying to keep his heart from bursting through his ribs, and pain rushed up his his left arm and across his shoulder as the weight of his body pressed down on it.

For several long minutes Fíli lay there, staring at the tent flap and waiting for someone to enter and find him curled up like a child wrapped in a nightmare. But no one came, and as time crept by, his breathing eased and his heart settled to a slower beat.

His body still trembled, though, and he felt as if his life had been drained away; and, somehow, something now felt _wrong_. It seemed to him that there was some place he needed to go, that there was something he needed to do - that he was not yet finished with some important task that had been set on him. But what that task could be, or the place that he was supposed to perform it, he could not recall.

Pulling himself back onto his knees, Fíli hung his head, fighting down a churning in his gut as he tried to remember what he should now be doing; then from the corner of his eye, he caught the faint glimmer of metal in a halfway-opened wooden box near the table. Curiosity welled up inside him, and he moved closer, then slid the lid aside. Within, he saw many clean bandages and rags, as well as straps of leather and wooden splints - and he saw also that the metal that had caught his attention was a pair of shears.

He drew the shears out, then opened and closed them a few times, watching and listening to the sharpened blades move against one another. He thought then that perhaps he remembered what it was he was supposed to be doing, after all; and so he pulled himself up onto his knees once more and turned his attention to the table. He stared hard at the stranger looking back at him from the ewer's shiny surface; then he opened the shears' blades and lifted them to his face.

Closing the shears around the bedraggled remnants of his mustache, he cut away first one ragged lock, then the other; then he glared at the odd reflection again. He opened the shears wide and pressed one of the exposed blades to his chin, then he scraped it down, taking off a section of his beard and slicing into his skin.

The pain from the cut shocked him, and he pulled back the shears and held them tightly as he wiped away the blood from his chin with the back of his hand. He looked down to where his whiskers now lay on the ground by his knees, then he shook his head and lowered his hand, trying to figure out why he had done such a thing. But he did not get the chance to wonder about it for more than a few seconds.

"What are you doing in here, boy?" a tired, feminine voice called out suddenly from behind him.

Fíli spun around, holding the shears out in front of himself defensively as his body tensed. Who he saw at the flap of the tent, though, was not an enemy, but girl not much taller than himself. Her long, disheveled brown hair was cast forward over her shoulders, her small hands were curled into fists, and her tattered blue dress and the apron she wore over it were splattered with blood - and though there was something familiar about her, Fíli could neither remember her name nor where he had seen her before.


	9. On The Mend

**Chapter Nine**

**ON THE MEND  
**

**Fíli's healing has begun, though he can neither remember how he received all of his wounds, nor the name of the person who is helping him.**

* * *

The girl's eyes widened and she stepped quickly forward; but Fíli's panic grew as she neared him, and he threw the shears down and slid back away from her. His head hit the table leg behind him and a sharp pain cut through his mind, and he shut his eyes tight as he lifted his shaking hand and dug his fingernails into his scalp. He felt a wound at the base of his skull, though he did not know where it had come from nor how bad it might be; and so he pressed his hand harder to the broken skin and leaned forward.

A nearby shuffling noise drew his attention back around, and he opened his eyes to see the young Woman kneeling by his side. Her face was clearer now, and she seemed even more familiar to him; but all he could be certain of was that she looked different from when he'd last seen her - whenever that had been.

The girl appeared to know Fíli well enough, at least, as she did not hesitate in reaching out to him. He flinched and held his breath, and she gave him a weary smile.

"It's alright," she said softly. "I'm not going to hurt you. You're safe now."

Her kind words sounded practiced-as if she had repeated them over and over again-but they eased Fíli's mind nonetheless, and he let out his held breath and allowed his tensed shoulders to relax. The girl nodded as her thin fingers neared his elbow, then she gently touched around the cut on his arm. Her brow furrowed, and she pursed her lips as she began to rise to her feet.

"I'm going to get help," she said. "Wait here."

In an instant, Fíli imagined the clamor that would follow when others found out that he still lived. He was not sure why the idea of that frightened him, but he knew that he did not yet want to be seen - to be _found_. He reached out and grabbed the hem of her skirt; and when she turned and looked down at him, he felt his cheeks warming. Letting go of her, he shook his head pleadingly as he mouthed the words '_not yet'_.

She tilted her head. "Can you speak?"

He let out a long and quavering breath, then he cleared his aching throat.

"...Yes..." he said, barely above a whisper; and although to his own ears his voice sounded weak and rough, he was relieved that he had any voice to speak with at all. "...Not well..."

Fíli coughed against the irritation, paining his back again; then he shifted over and grabbed hold of the edge of the table, pulling himself uneasily to his feet. He grew dizzy and stumbled to the side, but before he could fall, the girl's hand clamped around the top of his left arm. Her surprisingly strong grip hurt, and her nearness somewhat alarmed him, but he did not pull away.

"Steady, now!" she said anxiously. "What's..."

She stopped talking suddenly; and even as her hand tightened on his arm, her other hand moved the hair away from his shoulder. He glanced over and saw then that the fabric of his tunic was stained with blood; and though he knew that it must have come from the wound on the back of his head, he felt there was a reason that he did not want her-or _anyone_-to know about it just yet.

"...Isn't mine..." he lied. Still, he searched for an excuse to give her for his unsteadiness, and the answer came with the gnawing in his stomach. "...I'm just..." He grunted against his sore throat. "...I've not eaten..."

"In how long?" she asked, lowering her hand from his shoulder and turning him towards the cot. "You've had something since you left the Lake, surely?"

He narrowed his eyes, wondering how she could have known that he had been at the Lake; then he pushed away the thought and went to where she was leading him. At the cot, he sat down on the woolen blanket while she kneeled on the dirt and stared up at him; but he could not bring himself to hold her gaze for long, and so he looked off to the side as he tried to remember when he had last tasted anything besides salt and blood.

It _had_ been on the lakeshore, he realized - but that had been days ago, and it hadn't been a meal, to speak of. His recollections were hazy, but he vaguely remembered that neither Kíli nor Tauriel would eat at all; Kíli because he'd had no appetite, and Tauriel because she had felt the scant supplies were best saved for those in greater need. He remembered Bofur and Óin accepting a few chunks of cheese from an old Woman. He remembered himself sitting on the sand, staring out across the water at the Lonely Mountain as he nibbled on the green of a leek.

He remembered, also, one of Bard's children bringing him a bowl of thin broth.

Fíli's mouth fell open slightly and he turned to the girl again; and despite his own unease, he reached out to her. She looked warily at his shaking fingers, but she did not shy away when he gathered her hair into his palm and moved it out of her face. In her features' openness, he could now see clearly that this was Bard's elder daughter - though her name continued to escape him.

"...Your hair was up..." he said, "...last I saw you."

"And you had more hair the last time I saw you," the girl returned, smiling faintly. "On your face, anyway."

He let go of her and felt along what was left of his mustache, then he touched the fresh cut on his chin before letting his hand fall onto his lap. The girl placed her own hand on his right arm, and he looked up from studying his bloody fingertips - but her own attention was again on his shoulder.

"...The blood isn't mine," he repeated his earlier lie; and despite his voice still being thin, he noticed that it seemed to be strengthening with use. "My wounds're slight."

The girl tilted her chin up, and he could tell that she doubted his words. "Slight or not, why have they not yet been treated?"

"I fell asleep," he told her, trying to convince himself that he was being truthful enough. He cast his eyes down, seeing again the red stains on the young Woman's dress, and he felt suddenly afraid for her. "You were hurt?"

She ran her hand over her apron. "No, I've been helping the healers," she said. "And you really should let one of them take a look at you."

The muscles in Fíli's jaw tensed. Most of his memories were far from clear, but he remembered keenly the fear that he had felt earlier that morning and the evening before. He had wanted to run then, to hide, to never let anyone see him again. He did not want that feeling to return; and though he had nearly gotten over his fright at being around a single person, he wasn't sure if he would be able to adjust so well to being surrounded by a crowd.

And a crowd would come when word of his survival spread. After all, how many people had seen him on the battlefield, with no life in his eyes? If he had been an Iron Hills Dwarf or a Man or even an Elf, the clamor might not be so great - but he was one of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield; and more than that, he was the Dwarf-King's nephew and heir.

_His heir..._

Fíli shook his head. The girl was right, though, that he needed help; but there were few people that he felt he would be comfortable around right now. And of those, there were only two that he knew of that might be among the healers - _if_ they still lived.

"My kinsman, Óin," he said. "Have you seen him?"

"Not since the Lake, I'm afraid" said the girl, shrugging slightly. "But most of the Dwarves have their own camp inside the Mountain, and he may well be there. I couldn't really say for certain, though. I've been down here in the field-camp helping my own folk and the Elves."

_The Elves._ Fíli hung his head. "Was Tauriel among them?"

"Not that I saw," she said; then she added, in a more hopeful tone: "But I can go look for her and Óin, and bring them here, if you like."

Fíli thought about it for a moment, then he let out a resigned sigh. "If you can.." The ache at the back of his head worked its way unexpectedly into his brow, and he drew in a quick breath through his teeth. "...If you can find them."

The young Woman smiled as she stood and placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him onto his side; then as she helped him to lift his weakened legs up onto the cot.

"Try to rest," she said, turning away. "I'll be back soon."

Without thinking, Fíli reached out with his left hand and grabbed her by the wrist. He grimaced, glancing at the slice just below his bruised elbow; but though he loosened his grip, he did not let her go.

"And bring Balin," he said when she looked down at him. "But please, tell them... tell them only that they are _needed_. Do not tell them that I am..." He shut his mouth tight.

The girl nodded. "I'll see what I can do," she said. "Though if your wish is to be alone, then you may not be for long. My father or brother or sister may come here for a rest at any time."

"I know," he said; and though he was gladdened to hear that all of her family had survived the Battle, he could not keep his thoughts focussed on them for long. "Thank you..."

She eased his hand back to his side, then turned without another word and quickly made her way to the tent flap. Soon, she was gone, and Fíli found himself staring into the emptiness of the tent and breathing in the scent of pyre-smoke that was still hanging in the air.

In the silence and solitude, his thoughts drifted back to the Battle and the wounds he had received; but he was now having a difficult time remembering what they all were, and how he had gotten them. He rolled onto his back and shut his eyes, searching his memory. He knew, at least, that he and Kíli had seen Thorin in danger, and that they had rushed to his aid - and, in doing so, Kíli had stabbed the white warg, then Fíli had slammed into it with his shield.

He lifted his right hand and ran his fingers over the swelling on his left elbow, then he slid his touch down to the cut below it. Where that had come from, he could not recall; and so he considered his throat, and why it ached.

That was not, at least, as great a mystery as some of his other hurts. He remembered Azog grabbing him, squeezing him, trying to choke the life out of him; but why the giant orc hadn't _killed_ him was another matter. He only knew that while he was being held high in the air, his arm had suddenly felt as if it was being burned. A moment later, he had fallen to the ground, then he'd looked up to see Azog standing by the dead warg. The orc had an Elvish arrow in his chest.

_Kíli's_ arrow.

The slice on Fíli's arm began to sting, and though he realized that he was digging his fingernails into it, he did not pull his touch away. _That_ wound, at least, could be forgiven, as Kíli had saved his life in giving it to him; though the causes of his other injuries, Fíli could not fathom.

His back hurt fiercely, especially now that he was lying down on it; and when he rubbed his head against the rough blanket, it felt as if someone was pushing a hot brand against his scalp. What had hit him there, though? It hadn't been a strike from some heavy and blunt weapon, and neither was it from a sword or axe, as the hole was small; and, he somehow knew, _deep_. Had it been another arrow? A spear? Could he have survived either?

Try as he may, the answers would not come to him; but he could not keep other memories from surfacing, though these were ones he wished would have stayed hidden in the darker corners of his mind.

Kíli was _dead_, that much he hadn't forgotten. He dimly recalled kneeling beside his brother on the battlefield, and his chest began to ache as he remembered the paleness of Kíli's face, and the way his broken neck had felt under Fíli's touch.

Then the rest of Fíli's memories came rushing back in the time it took him to draw in a ragged breath. The fighting, the fear, the pain, the shock - it was all back in his mind, back in his thoughts, and at once he felt as if he was on the battlefield once more.

His heartbeat thrummed in his ears, and soon the sound shifted into ringing; then he heard swords clashing and people screaming. He jumped and his eyes flew open; and as he stared up, the lights in his vision shifted and wavered as he felt the spike of Azog's claw sliding through his skull and into his mind. His body was lifted and shaken; then the sound of his brother calling out his name was followed by the horrifying crunch of Kíli's neck being snapped.

Smoke seemed to fill Fíli's lungs and he coughed against it, then he rolled to his side and gasped. His already-unsteady vision flared bright as he fought for air, then the lights flashed and flickered before going out like a candle flame killed by a gust of wind.

...

The fresh scent of kingsfoil filled Fíli's senses, warming his lungs and easing the aching in his head; and though in the back of his mind he could still see the battle raging around him and could still hear the screams of the dying, a greater energy was seeping into his limbs and there was more clarity in his thoughts.

He became vaguely aware of soft fingers moving along the side of his left elbow, and he shifted his face on the blanket and let out a long breath, though his eyes remained shut.

"Tauriel..?" he asked feebly, his voice still coarse.

The hands stilled on his skin. "I could't find her," Bard's daughter spoke up, her voice worried and uncertain. "Nor any of your kin, I'm afraid. I'm sorry."

The Dwarf opened his eyes a bit, noticing before anything else that the fire at the center of the tent was burning again. The pot atop it was steaming heartily and there was a sprig of green kingsfoil sticking up over the rim, and he supposed that the girl had been steeping the herb in the boiling water, as Tauriel had done in Bard's home.

He turned his eyes to the young Woman where she sat on the edge of the cot, seeing then that her hair was now tied back into a braid - and also that her jaw was set and her eyebrows were drawn deeply together.

_Sigrid,_ Fíli thought, relieved to again remember who she was. _Her name is Sigrid._

Warmth touched his arm and he realized that she was cleaning the skin around his arrow-wound, but he did not dare to lift his head to look at it.

"Thank you for keeping your word," he said after a minute of silence.

"You sound surprised. Were you afraid to wake and find a crowd?"

"Perhaps."

"You don't seem as bad off now as earlier, at least," she told him. "Did the rest do you well, you think?"

"It may have," he answered as he felt her fingers slide down to his wrist. "Or maybe it's the kingsfoil and your touch. Did you learn much from the healers?"

Sigrid threw the now-bloody cloth onto the dirt. "A bit," she said; then she stood up and reached her hand down to him.

He took hold of it and she pulled him up to sitting, both of them grunting with the effort; and after he had swung his feet around onto the ground, she again sat down on the cot.

"They mostly had me running for bandages and herbs and such," she went on. "And heating water and..." Her voice trailed off and she looked down at her hands. "It was a long evening. A long _morning_."

"And now I'm taking you away from your rest," he said apologetically, stretching his stiffened shoulders.

She said nothing to this, and so he craned his neck to look at his arm, though the effort burned his spine and the back of his head. His sleeve had been pushed up to his shoulder, and from what he could tell, the young Woman had done a fine job of cleaning his skin. Almost every trace of blood and dirt had been washed away; and, whether because of the kingsfoil-infused water or for some other reason, there was also less pain now. He wondered how long he had been asleep, though, if she had managed to get so much done before he awoke.

His sight lingered on the darkened edges of the arrow-slice, then he lifted his eyes to the girl. "Can you stitch a wound?" he asked.

Sigrid's answer came in the form of a slight shrug; then she began to wring her hands on her lap. "I don't feel right about this."

"I'll do it, myself, if you feel that you can't."

She gritted her teeth. "Do any of your kin know that you still live?"

The question took him off-guard, and he hesitated for a moment before answering. "Not yet," he told her at last; then he tried to force a return to the earlier subject. "If you could tell me where I might find a needle and thread, I'll ask no more of you."

Her shoulders slumped, and she squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds before looking abruptly over at him. "I'll stitch your arm, but then I am going to find your kin," she told him with finality. She leaned over and picked up a pack that was sitting on the ground at her feet, then set it on his lap. "You should eat. I'm afraid it isn't a proper meal, but it should help to get your strength up."

Fíli cleared his aching throat and accepted the pack with a polite nod; and as Sigrid stood and made her way to the crates by the table, he searched inside the bag and found several hard biscuits and a skin of water. He took out one of the biscuits and began nibbling on the corner of it, but when he swallowed, it went down in a hard lump. He grunted and coughed, and his head began to throb.

"Cram tends to be dry," said Sigrid, walking to the fire and dipping a threaded needle into the steaming pot. "But it keeps for some time and fills you up."

Fíli returned the biscuit to the bag. "It's appreciated, anyway," he said. He brought out the water-skin, then uncorked it and took a cautious sip, thankful that he did not this time choke. "It's more than I've had to eat in days."

Sigrid came back to the cot with the cleaned needle and thread in her hand and the shears in the belt of her apron; and without a word, she sat down on his left side and pulled his arm out straight before setting to work stitching his wound shut. It did not hurt as much as he had feared it might, but still it stung, and he took another drink as he tried to ignore the pain. He could not keep himself from looking over at her as she worked, however, and he saw that she was doing a fine job of keeping the stitches small and close, though her thin fingers were shaking.

"Did the healers teach you how to do that?" he asked.

"I've been fixing cuts since I was no older than Tilda," she said. "My father came home with them often enough. And it's not much different from quilting, if I'm honest."

Her fingers fumbled with the thread as she attempted to tie off the last stitch, and after three tries she at last managed it; then she snipped off the end of the thread and threw the shears onto the cot.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No," she told him flatly.

She rose to her feet and quickly made her way to the table; and Fíli watched on as she lowered herself to her knees and began digging almost roughly through one of the crates. After a few seconds, she stood with a length of fabric in her hand, then she very nearly bounded back to the cot.

"Yes," she corrected herself suddenly. "There _is_ something wrong."

"What is it?" asked Fíli as warmth rose in his chest.

The girl folded the cloth over into a triangle and held it up against his arm, as if checking it for size. "I lied to you," she said, tying a knot in the long ends of the fabric.

At once, Fíli's hand began to tremble and he realized he was still holding the water skin. He corked it and set it down beside him on the blanket, then he curled his fingers into a fist and pressed it to his leg.

"About what?" he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

She gripped the cloth tightly. "When I went up to the Gate, I _did_ learn where two of your kin are," she said; and it seemed to Fíli that her eyes had begun to well up. "Your brother and uncle."

The Dwarf's fist relaxed and he flattened his palm against his leg. "I know what happened to them," he said softly as the heat in his chest turned to an ache.

Sigrid sat beside him on the cot and let out a long breath. "I was afraid to say anything. I wasn't sure if you knew."

"I was there when..." He stopped as a blur began to disturb his vision.

Sigrid's wide eyes stared into Fíli's own for a moment, then she held the fabric up, showing him the sling she had made. "It will be best if you keep your arm still until a proper healer can take a look at it," she said, changing the subject. "Your elbow may be broken."

He nodded in agreement, then cooperated as she slid the sling around his injured arm; but when he lowered his head to allow her to ease the loop over it, her hand brushed against the open wound on his scalp. He drew in a quick breath and jerked away, and she held her hands up.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "Did I hurt you?"

Fíli shook his head slightly and grimaced. "It's nothing..."

But even as he spoke, Sigrid was already leaning over and looking at the back of his head. He tried to shift away from her, and she grabbed him by his sleeve to keep him in place as she moved closer; then her fingers moved across his hair, and she pushed it gently aside and ran her touch up his neck. A moment later, her fingertips slid over the hole on the base of his skull and he pulled away again.

Sigrid gasped and sat back, throwing her hand over her mouth; then she stood and rushed towards the tent flap.


	10. Blood And Ink

**Chapter Ten**

**BLOOD AND INK**

**With Sigrid's help, Fíli tries to work up the courage he needs to speak with his kin.**

* * *

"Wait!" Fíli called out, knocking the pack to the ground as he stood. Though he was still unsteady on his feet, he managed to get to Sigrid's side before she could make it to the tent flap; then he stepped in front of her and held up his hand pleadingly. "Not yet..."

The young Woman covered her face with her palms and shook her head. "I can't do this," she said, peeking at him through her fingers. "I have to get... someone. _Anyone_. I can't..."

"Sigrid, please..."

She lowered her hands, then curled her fingers into fists at her sides. "You said your wounds were _slight!_"

"They _are_," said Fíli, pressing his arm so hard into the sling that the knot dug into his already-sore neck. "It isn't as bad as it looks."

"You don't _know_ how bad it looks!"

She was very nearly yelling now, and Fíli feared that her raised voice might bring others to the tent; so he turned to the flap and pushed it aside, then blinked uncomfortably in the brightness as he glanced around. The only people outside were a Woman and an Elf-maid, who spoke quietly to one another as they made their way through the camp. They stopped outside a tent, and the Elf motioned for the Woman to enter before her; and after they had both stepped out of sight, there was no one else to be seen.

Fíli let out a relieved breath and shut the flap as he turned towards Sigrid; but when he saw the intensity in her eyes, he faltered back.

"I can't mend something like that," she said firmly. "It's deeper than the wound on your arm, and in a far worse place."

"I'm not asking you to mend it," Fíli told her. He grew suddenly dizzy; and though he tried not to let it show on his face, he still stumbled slightly to the side. "Just, please, wait for a while before you tell anyone I'm here."

"What good will that do?" she snapped.

Fíli slid his shaking right hand behind himself, then the unsteadiness overcame him and his knees weakened; but he felt Sigrid ease a supportive arm around his back, and he did not fall.

"I know you want to help me," he said between shaky breaths. "But if you leave... you will not find me here when you get back." He cringed, realizing how much that had sounded like a threat.

"Why will you not let me get someone?" she asked, guiding him back to the cot. She helped him to sit, then rested her hand on his shoulder. "Would you really rather die?"

He turned his eyes to the ground. "I'm not dying," he said, though he was aware of the uncertainty in his own voice. "I have no fever, my bleeding has stopped, I'm walking and talking..."

"Plenty of people were walking and talking after the Battle," said Sigrid. "And still they died."

Fíli felt a visceral shock, remembering the old Man who had collapsed by the fire and the look on the young girl's face as she clawed helplessly at his chest. He wondered now how many others had died so suddenly over the evening - he wondered how many of those deaths Sigrid had seen, and whether she now knew the signs that such a death was coming.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow. "I'm sorry I lied," he said. "I'm sorry I told you that it wasn't my blood. I didn't..." His voice faded.

Sigrid kneeled in front of him and placed her hand on his slung arm. "Let me go get help," she said. "An Elf, a Dwarf... _someone_. A while ago, you asked me to seek out Balin and Óin and Tauriel. Why would you not want them here _now_?"

Fíli shook his head. Sooner or later, he knew, he would have to sit down with Balin and Dáin and the rest of his kin; he would have to speak with them about what should be done from here on, and the conversation was sure to be unpleasant. Balin had, after all, sounded so confident about Dáin's ability to rule the people of Erebor - though he had spoken with more fear and uncertainty about Fíli, himself.

Of course, at the time, he had believed Fíli to be dead. What now would his words be, when he learned that Fíli still lived? Would the old Dwarf still fear that he would fall, as Thorin had? Would he fear it more when he saw the wound that Azog had left behind? Would he be right in that fear?

"When you came in here earlier, I couldn't remember most of the Battle," he admitted, to his own surprise; then he turned to look at the girl. "I couldn't remember _you_."

Her eyes narrowed. "But you do _now_?"

"Yes," he replied, turning away again. "But I don't know what else I may have forgotten, or what I may yet forget. And I do not know what _other_ effects my wounding may have had." A lump rose in his throat and he swallowed against it; then he pressed his fingertips to the blood on the back of his neck. "I cannot let my kin see me like this. They might think..." The words failed on his lips, and he lowered his hand to his lap.

"That you survived?" asked Sigrid. "That you lived through something that would likely have killed a Man outright?"

Fíli squeezed his eyes shut. "They would _doubt_..." he said, though he did not go on.

A silence fell between them; and at length, Sigrid brushed the hairs off of Fíli's brow.

"If I helped you to get cleaned up a bit, would you _then_ allow me to bring a healer?" she asked. "If you did not _look_ so wounded, would you _then_ allow those wounds to be treated?"

"I might," he said, turning to her once more. "But I cannot say now how I will feel later."

Sigrid smiled softly, then she stood and walked to the table. He looked away from her, listening as she rustled through the crates; and all the while, he stared towards the tent flap, almost expecting someone to step in at any moment. But no one came, and when he heard a scraping sound, he turned to watch Sigrid as she drew the ewer off the table. She then went to the fire and poured the cold water into the steaming pot, presumably to cool it off.

"I would not have been able to stop you," he said.

Sigrid set the now-empty ewer down on the dirt, then she used her apron to protect her hand as she lifted the pot off the fire. "What do you mean?" she asked; and when she turned towards him he saw that she had a bundle of white rags in her other hand.

"If you had left to get help, I couldn't have stopped you," he clarified.

She tossed the clean rags on the blanket beside him. "I know."

"So, why did you not go?"

"Because you asked me not to," she said, staring hard at him for a moment before walking behind the cot. She grunted as she set the pot down on the dirt, then she ran her fingers over his bloody hair. "When my father asked me to help the healers, the first thing they told me was never to do anything to the wounded that they did not want done."

"Even if it meant that they would die?"

"As long as they knew that's what might happen."

She tried to force her fingers through his hair and he grimaced as it pulled on the skin around his wound.

"And did many..." he began, but he could not bring himself to finish asking if many _had_ died, for refusing treatment.

"Some did," said Sigrid, apparently understanding his question. "There was one Man that I knew from when we lived on the Lake. His leg was..." She stopped combing her fingers through Fíli's hair and placed her hand on his shoulder. "It was broken in the Battle. It was _snapped_... and the bone was... you could _see_ it..." She drew in a sharp breath. "The healers said the only way to save him would have been to give up his leg, but he wouldn't let them. They begged him to let them save his life, but he... he said he would rather die as a _whole Man_."

She let out a little choking noise, and Fíli reached up and placed his hand on hers. She jumped, then squeezed his shoulder gently before pulling her hand away.

"This is going to take some time," she said, again trying to comb her fingers through his hair. "I'm not sure if I can get all of the blood and dirt out."

Fíli looked across the space to where the remains of his mustache lay on the dirt; and after only a few seconds of considering what it meant, he reached to the side and picked up the shears, then held them over his shoulder to the girl.

"Cut it away, then," he said. "If it will make it easier for you."

"Are you sure?" asked Sigrid, taking the shears. "I thought Dwarves were fond of their hair."

Fíli smiled a bit despite himself, but the smile quickly fell. "We _are_," he said. "But it hardly matters right now, and it will grow back in time."

Sigrid let out a long breath, then ran her hand over the back of his head again. She lifted the hair off of his neck, and he squeezed his eyes shut as she closed the shears around a bloodied lock; then she cut away another clump of hair, then another. She worked in silence for several minutes, and his eyes shifted down towards the blanket as the dirty remnants of his hair fell onto it.

He imagined how he would look when she was done, and the thought was disquieting; though he knew that he would have had his hair cut off later, anyway, to honor the fallen. He wondered now, though, if he had begun taking off his mustache for just that purpose - he wondered if, in some deep part of his mind, he had told himself that it was time to go forward with his mourning.

"You said that you saw my brother and uncle?" he asked abruptly.

Sigrid slowed in her snipping for a moment. "I didn't _see_ them, really," she said. "I went to the largest tent in the Mountain because I thought that maybe I would find Balin or the others there, but the guard said the only ones inside were the dead. When I asked who they were that had been given such a place to be laid out, he told me that it was the Dwarf-King and one of the princes. I had to ask their names... I didn't know..."

"That Thorin was a King?" asked Fíli. His eyes started to burn and the ache in his throat worsened. "He was, yes. For however short a time."

She tapped her finger absently against the side of his neck, as if she was thinking about something; and he looked over his shoulder at her briefly before the pain at the base of his skull forced him to turn back around.

"Were there any others in the tent?" he asked, knowing that if any of the Company had fallen in the Battle, Balin would have made sure that they were laid out with Thorin and Kíli. "Any other dead?"

"The guard didn't say." She snipped a bit more of his hair, then stopped cutting altogether and set the shears down on the cot. "How does that feel?"

Fíli touched the freshly-trimmed hair at the back of his sore neck. "It's fine," he said; then he bit down on his tongue.

"Do you think we can get this off?" asked Sigrid, running her hand down the sleeve of his tunic as she walked around in front of him. "Without hurting you too much?"

"Whatever pain comes from here, I think I can handle it well enough."

The girl helped Fíli to slide his arm out of the sling, then she took hold of the bottom of his shirt and gingerly removed it as he groaned against the pain in both his arm and his neck. She threw the tunic to the ground and drew in a quick, sharp breath. He looked up at her, but her own eyes were turned towards his right shoulder; and when he glanced over, he realized that she was staring at the angular design of his skin-art. She raised her eyebrows and cleared her throat before stepping back around the cot and out of his sight.

He heard the swishing of a rag being dipped into the herbed water, and the dripping sound of it being wrung out; then she cautiously moved the remaining hair away from his wound. He winced as she cleaned around the broken skin, then she threw the used rag onto the ground in front of him and grabbed another one from the pile, dipping and wringing it before pressing it to the hole.

"Hold this here," she said. "At least it will keep more dirt from getting into the wound."

He did as she asked, and a moment later Sigrid brought another cloth, still-dripping, up to his head. He felt warmth flow over his scalp and down his neck and bare back as she gently ran it over his hair; then she repeated the same actions again and again, throwing each rag to the ground as it got soiled. Soon there was a pile of bloody cloths at his feet, and when she this time combed his hair with her fingers, they went through with much more ease.

"That looks a lot better," she said, taking away the rag that he had been holding to his wound and throwing it onto the pile with the rest. "Better than it _did_, anyway."

Though he hadn't noticed when it had begun to do so, Fíli became suddenly aware that the pain in his head had lessened. "_Feels_ better."

She came back around the cot and held out another wetted-and-wrung length of fabric. "Clean your face."

Fíli obeyed as she went back to the crates and returned to his side with yet more rags; and he wondered just how much blood he had on him if she needed so many. She stepped behind the cot again and set about cleaning his neck and shoulders, and as he leaned his head forward, his eyes focussed on his trousers, which were stained black from the blood of the goblin that had died atop his legs the night before.

He remembered then the goblin being lifted away, and he saw in his mind the old Woman that had kneeled beside him afterwards. He hoped, at least, that Legolas had managed to keep her safe; then he recalled what the Elf had said about the enemy heading south.

"Did the orcs get to the Lake?" he asked before he could stop himself.

Sigrid's hand froze on his shoulder. "Yes," she answered simply; then she moved the warm cloth across his upper arm - slower now, and repetitively, as if she had her mind on something else.

"I'm sorry the Battle came to you," he told her.

His words seemed to draw her attention back and she slid the rag to his right shoulder and began to rub harder; and he looked over to see that she seemed to be scrubbing at his inked skin.

"It doesn't come off," he told her, smiling crookedly.

Sigrid pulled her hand back. "I know," she said, cleaning the back of his arm. "I just... I was wondering, how is it done?"

"With inked needles and a steady hand."

She gasped slightly. "Does it hurt?"

"It did when I had it done. But that was a long time ago."

Sigrid ran the cloth across his shoulder blades and down the center of his back, and when she reached the base of his spine, he felt a shock of pain and jumped. She pulled the rag back and her fingers touched on either side of where the pain was the strongest.

"What happened here?" she asked.

"It's just a bruise," he said, balling his right hand into a fist. "It will heal on its own."

"What hit you?"

"I was thrown... into a boulder, I think."

She ran her fingers over the bruise once more; and though she did so more gently this time, he arched his back and grimaced.

"Maybe stop doing that?" he asked as politely as he could manage through clenched teeth.

Sigrid drew her hand away from the bruise; and a moment later the now-cool rag moved over the ribs on his left side. "Is it something all Dwarves have done?"

"What?" asked Fíli; then he realized that she was again speaking of his skin-art. "Not all, but it is fairly common in Ered Luin."

"Where's that?"

"My home," said Fíli; though even as he spoke the word, he felt his heart sink. "My _old_ home, in the far west."

The girl pulled the cloth off of his skin and walked around the cot, then she sat down on his right side, still staring at his arm. "Do they _mean_ anything?"

"Some do. Some Dwarves have the names of kin, or even stories or history inked into their skin."

"What do yours say?"

"They're not words," he said, glancing at the art; then he looked Sigrid in the eye. "They match my father's, though I never learned if they had any meaning."

"You never asked him?"

"I didn't know him long enough."

Sigrid's eyes widened a bit and her cheeks reddened, then she threw the rag to the ground and rested her elbows on her knees and set her chin atop her folded hands. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know."

"It's alright," he said with a small shrug. "All the memories I have of him are faint, and it is hard to miss someone you barely knew."

The girl's shoulders slumped and she closed her eyes. "My mother died when Tilda was born," she said. "My father was away running barrels at the time. He never got over not being there when it happened." She let out a long breath. "She taught me a lot while she was still around, at least. Cooking and sewing and knitting... and how to take care of children." The young Woman opened her eyes and looked over at Fíli. "I think she knew she was going to die. I think she was trying to make sure there would still be someone around who could take care of things without her."

"Our mother taught us how to forge and fight," said Fíli. "Up until Thorin took over our training, anyway."

"Is she still..." Sigrid stopped and pressed her lips together, almost as if she felt she had caught herself saying something she shouldn't have.

"Is she still alive?" Fíli finished for her; then he nodded. "She's waiting for us back home..." He stopped and swallowed hard. "Waiting for _me_ now, I suppose."

At once, Sigrid's eyes welled up and tears started coursing down her cheeks; and despite Fíli being half-undressed, she leaned against him and hung her head. Fíli wrapped his uninjured arm over her shoulder, and for a long while they sat there, still and silent except for her heavy breaths and the gentle heaving of her shoulders; until at last she calmed and became so quiet that Fíli thought she may have fallen asleep by his side.

"Sigrid?" he asked, shaking her gently. "Are you awake?"

"Yes," she said; and though she spoke quietly, there was no trace of sleep in her voice.

"You have already helped me more than I could have hoped," he told her, "but there is more that I would ask of you, if you are still willing."

She looked up at him with reddened eyes. "What do you need?"

"Clothes, first of all," he said, glancing down at his bare chest. "If there are any to be found."

"There are. Though you mightn't want those that were taken off the dying or the dead."

"I will wear whatever will fit me, and hope that the former owners would not object."

"And what will you do then?" asked Sigrid.

Fíli hesitated for a moment. "I'll seek out Balin and my other kin," he answered at last, reaching over and taking her small hand in his own. "But first, I want to see my uncle and brother."


	11. Cold Comfort

**Chapter Eleven**

**COLD COMFORT**

**Fíli seeks some time alone with his fallen kin, but the peaceful moment passes too soon.**

* * *

Fíli stood just inside the Gate, watching as Sigrid made her way past the tents that lined the walls of the Mountain tunnel. Her small feet slipped on a stone and she stumbled, then she glanced back at the Dwarf before turning forward again and lifting the hem of her skirt to allow herself a better view of the the cluttered floor.

The girl had been slow to agree to do this for him, but in the end she had relented, admitting that there was nothing she would suffer for it but a little embarrassment. In fact, despite her initial reluctance, the largest part of the plan had been her own. He had asked only for her help in finding a way to have a private moment with Kíli and Thorin, but when she'd told him that a few straggling goblins and wargs had been found in the tunnels after the Battle, her eyes had lit up.

She had even seemed rather pleased with the whole idea - though whether that was because of his assurance that he would seek out Balin afterwards or because she was giddy from lack of sleep, he couldn't say. Whatever it had been, after the plan had been laid out, she had gone to fetch him clean clothing while he ate a bit more of the cram in an effort to settle his stomach and steady his head; but she was not long about her task, and by the time she returned, he felt no better than when she had left.

On the chance that he might need help, Sigrid had then stayed with him in the tent while he dressed-all the while keeping her back turned respectfully-and after he had struggled into his new trousers and boots, she did indeed need to help him don the tunic. It fit none too well, being somewhat tight across his shoulders and chest, but he told her that it would do just fine for the short time that he would be needing it.

She had then helped him to put his arm back into his sling before fastening the toggle of a dark brown cloak under his chin. _"You could pass for a boy now,"_ she'd told him, pulling the hood up over his head. _"Except for maybe your ears. And your beard. Perhaps it's best just to keep your head covered."_

They had then made their way to the Gate; and now that she had vanished into the darkness far ahead, Fíli began following after her. He looked to the tents on either side of him as he shuffled down the passage, skirting around boulders and trying to avoid tripping over the many Iron Hills Dwarves that lay on bare spots on the floor. Some were using their cast-off armor or clothing as pillows and had their arms draped over their eyes as they snored, while others were leaning against the crumbling stone wall with their chins upon their chests; but none of them seemed to notice Fíli as he walked slowly by.

These Dwarves, at least, did not appear to have taken many injuries in the Battle, and they seemed more exhausted than pained. It was likely, Fíli knew, that most of the more seriously wounded were inside the tents; and a little deeper into the Mountain, he stopped outside a large one that had a heavy blanket draped over the flap. Deep sobbing and gasping came from within - and he heard also, somewhat disconcertingly, a strange _laughter_. He drew closer and listened more attentively; but his thoughts were pulled suddenly away by a yell that came from further down the tunnel.

Fíli spun around and made his way into the shadows close to the wall, stumbling over a sleeping Dwarf on the way there. The Dwarf mumbled something before settling back down, and Fíli stepped carefully away from him and glanced around the edge of the canvas tent. He watched on as Sigrid ran out of a tunnel to the right of a large tent that was set up at a main junction; then she lifted the flap and hollered something that could not be clearly heard.

A few of the reclining soldiers nearby lifted their heads at the noise before closing their eyes and lying back down; and a moment later, an armored Iron Hills Dwarf came bounding out of the tent with a halberd held tightly in his thick hand. Sigrid grabbed hold of the edge of his steel cuirass and started to pull on him - and though Fíli still could not hear what she was saying, he saw that she was pointing down one of the passages.

The Dwarf said something to her, waving his free hand about; then he glanced back over his shoulder into the tent before looking towards the Gate. Fíli slid himself further back against the wall and watched as Sigrid continued to motion frantically; and after pounding the shaft of his halberd into the ground, the guard lowered the tent flap and headed in the direction that she was pointing.

Sigrid followed after him, and Fíli slid out of the shadows and made his way quickly to the now-unguarded tent. He paused outside it for a few seconds as he squinted into the darkness where Sigrid and the guard had vanished; then he slipped in through the flap and stopped suddenly, stilled by the sight of three wooden biers in the center of the torch-lit space.

Two of the biers held sheet-covered forms, while the third stood unoccupied; and he knew for whom the empty one was intended as well as he knew who lay atop the others. He let his gaze wander over the shrouds, noting the shape of each body underneath. The nearer was his uncle; that much he could tell from his size and from the staining on the fabric, which showed where he had been injured in the battle. Kíli had no such stains upon his sheet, as most of the blood that had been on him had been washed away by the rain.

Fíli's head grew light, and he turned his eyes to the floor, staring at the cracked stone and trying to gather both the strength to stay on his feet and the courage to again look up. But he could not raise his head just yet, and so he swayed on unsteady legs for a moment before making his way to where his dead kin lay. Once there, he pushed back his hood, then at last lifted his eyes and pressed his injured arm hard against his ribs, pulling down on the sling until his neck cramped.

Now that he was here, he really didn't know what he had hoped to do. He'd wanted a chance to be alone with Kíli and Thorin, but he could have managed that without the need to send Sigrid to distract the guard. If he'd have spoken to Balin first, he was certain that the older Dwarf would have had no problem giving him some private time to tell his brother and uncle _goodbye._ But he was not now going to turn around and leave, so he swallowed hard and lifted his uninjured arm, resting his palm on his uncle's chest.

Thorin's armor had been removed at some point - presumably to allow for healing, for all the good it had done. Fíli glanced around and saw nothing in the tent except the biers, a few torches, and a low table with a small, closed beechwood chest atop it. There was no bed or cot for an injured Dwarf to rest upon, no crate full of bandages, no fire on which to heat water for cleaning wounds. Wherever Thorin had been laid out for healing, it hadn't been here.

Fíli slid his hand up to his uncle's head and took gentle hold of the sheet, pulling it down; then the breath caught in his throat and the hand with which he held the sheet began to shake. Thorin's skin was pale beneath his silver-streaked dark hair, though the dirt and blood from the battle had been washed off of his bruised and slashed cheeks. He seemed peaceful at first glance - but Fíli knew the way his uncle looked when he was in pain, and that expression was frozen on his features even now, in death.

He wondered who Thorin had been speaking to when he'd died, and what the last words from his lips had been. He wondered, also, if those last words might have been spoken to him, if he had only let someone know that he still lived the night before. Thorin had thought him already dead, had given up his life with that belief in his mind; but might there now be a different expression on his face if Fíli's eyes had been the last he had looked into? Would he have died happy in the knowledge that his nephew-his _heir_-still lived?

Fíli forced himself to let go of the sheet and slid his palm over Thorin's cheek, then he leaned forward and placed his brow against his uncle's own.

"I'm here," he whispered; then he reached up and ran his fingers through Thorin's hair. "It's over, Uncle. We _won_. He's dead... Azog's dead, and I'm here now..."

He smoothed down the hair on his uncle's head and stood up as straight as he could manage; though the pain in his back sent him hunching over once more. He turned slowly around to the bier where Kíli's body rested; then he paused, staring down at the sheet with fear and uncertainty.

The last time he had seen his brother, it had been on the battlefield, and the look on Kíli's face was still fresh in his memory - the soft dullness in his eyes, the whiteness of his cheeks, the way his head was twisted to the side from Azog's blow. Fíli didn't want to see him that way again. But he _did_ want to see him, and so he pulled back the fabric before he could convince himself not to.

Here in the flickering torchlight, Kíli looked more peaceful and less pained than he had the night before; and he might have been merely sleeping, but for his stillness and the bruise that circled his neck. Fíli let his eyes travel over the curve of his brother's chin and up his temple, then across to where his hair, still damp from the rain, was curled and clinging to his pale face like an obsidian crown on the dead prince's brow.

Fíli ran his fingertips over Kíli's temple, brushing his hair aside; then he squeezed his eyes shut and leaned over, pressing his lips to his brother's forehead.

"I'm sorry..." he began whispering against Kíli's cool skin; but he choked and found that he could not go on speaking aloud, and so he lowered his face and buried it in the curve of his brother's neck.

_I'm sorry I didn't save you,_ he thought, hoping that, somehow, Kíli could hear him from some distant place. He rubbed his cheek against the younger Dwarf's whiskered chin, then wrapped his arm over his armored chest, holding him tightly. _We were supposed to be together, weren't we? It was supposed to you and me... _

He stood up again, allowing the tears to flow freely down his cheeks as he stared past the blur at his brother's quiet form. He saw then a strange shape under the sheet on the far side of the bier, and he pulled the fabric down to find Kíli's bow and empty Elvish quiver lying beside him.

Tauriel had given the quiver to Kíli after Smaug's attack, but Fíli didn't suppose that either of them had thought that it would be needed as soon as it had been. It had, perhaps, been the only parting gift that she'd had to give, though Fíli had thought it a strange thing for an Elf to part with at all.

Kíli had accepted it gratefully, in any case, then he had taken Tauriel's hand in his own and placed a quick, almost chivalrous kiss on her fingers. Seeing this, Fíli had at first thought to step up and come between his brother and the Elf; but he had decided, instead, to turn away and let them speak in peace - though when he had glanced over at them again, they were still holding to each others' hands.

_"...For luck,"_ he had heard Kíli say.

_"As are the arrows,"_ Tauriel had returned, smiling kindly.

Soon afterwards, she had ridden off with Legolas, while Fíli and the other Dwarves had left for the Lonely Mountain. Until the Battle, he had seen no more of her - and he wondered now if he would ever see her again, or if she had fallen as so many others had. She was, perhaps, among those who now burned on the pyre between the Mountain and Dale; and Fíli felt a brief rush of regret that he had not gotten the chance to thank her for all that she had done for Kíli.

Fíli looked curiously at the quiver, then lifted it and turned it over. A bit of sand and gravel fell from it, onto the bier; then he laid the quiver back down at Kíli's side and let out a long breath. He had hoped that his brother had stowed his rune-stone inside, as he tended to when he found himself without pockets; but the stone was _not_ there, and so Fíli knew that it had likely been lost on the battlefield - like Kíli's promise to come home, and Fíli's own promise to _bring_ him home.

Hanging his head, Fíli turned away and looked at the empty bier where he himself should have been lying, if some twist of fate had not dictated otherwise. He wondered if it had been prepared before his kin knew that he would not be using it, or if they had built it afterwards in the hopes that his body would still be recovered. He imagined, at least, that it had not been reported to Thorin that he was missing. Balin would not have wanted to burden his old friend with that news, and to do so would have served no purpose, anyway.

Still, he wondered what reason had been thought up to explain why his body had not been found; though at this point, he reminded himself, it didn't really matter. The guard would return soon, after the search for Sigrid's imaginary warg came to nothing, and word of Fíli's presence would be sent to Balin and Dáin. There would then follow many discussions, conferences, councils; there would be questions about his survival, about his absence after the Battle, about the wound on his head and whether or not it would be a hindrance. There would be questions about who would now lead the Dwarves of Erebor.

He swallowed hard, then turned on his heel and took a step towards the tent flap; but as he did, his eyes came to rest on the beechwood chest on the low table in the corner. He stopped, shifting around to face it. It may have only been a trick of the torchlight on the brass fittings, he knew, but he thought for a moment that he had seen a wisp of light slip out through the joins in the box's lid.

Curiosity compelled Fíli to walk near; but when he looked down at the chest from above, sudden heat filled his lungs. He stumbled back, knowing at once what lay inside without needing to look. But even with that knowledge and the fear of what it meant, he stepped forward again and reached out, resting his palm on the lid.

The hairs on his arm stood up, as if a chill had run through his body; but he felt nothing except pleasant heat seeping through the wood, and he gave in to the need to open the lid before he had even realized that need was within him. Then he froze in place, unable to look away from the small, brilliant stone that now cast its light into his widening eyes.

"The Arkenstone..." he whispered breathlessly.

The gem seemed to recognize its own name and flared brighter, giving off a crisp shimmer like a star that had been brought down to Earth and trapped inside an icy prison. The illumination shifted and flowed, changing from cold blue to the warming tone of a red sunrise; and still Fíli's hand rested atop the chest's open lid, though his deepest thoughts warned him to close it, to lock the Stone back inside.

But the jewel did not _want_ to be hidden from him; and silent and still as it was, he felt that it was begging him not to leave it alone in the dark again. Despite the warning in his own mind, he let the lid fall open completely and the full brilliance of the Arkenstone escaped into the air. He lowered his palm until it hovered just above the glowing form; then he felt his hand grow heavy, and his fingertips brushed against the Stone's smooth surface.

A painful tingle worked its way into his fingers as he slid his touch over the jewel. He watched in wonder as wisps of smoky-blue and red light seemed to break off, then curl back into the brilliant core; then the prickling under his skin grew, and soon sharp, vicious cold began to cut into his fingertips.

The freezing faded into a burning that traveled through his hand and up his arm, then it embedded itself in his chest before pushing through his body and into his spine. It flowed up, then, into his mind; and there it settled as fire seemed to grow behind his eyes. It hurt fiercely, though this pain was so different than any he had ever felt. It was welcome and warm, and it seemed to belong in his thoughts - and it brought with it a vision of riches pouring out of the Gate of Erebor.

Then the Arkenstone began to speak to him, its words soft and calm; and like a whispered promise, it told Fíli how it could help to build a kingdom, how it could help him to rebuild _this_ kingdom. _His_ kingdom. It said that it could guide him to places where the miners could unearth more of those things that Dwarves held so dear. The iron, the gold, the gems; it knew where to find them, it knew about secret paths that would lead to new lodes.

It _was_ the Heart of the Mountain, it told him in secrecy and confidence, and the lifeblood of Erebor ever flowed from it. All it asked of Fíli was that he follow to where that blood led, that he open new delvings, that he call for his people to chip away at the rock in their search for more things precious and rare. It told him not to fear when the veins were emptied, because there was always some deeper place to dig.

A smile rose to Fíli's lips. He understood now why Thorin had held the Arkenstone of such value, why Thror had mourned its loss when Smaug had stolen it. It _was_ a thing worth digging for, worth _dying_ for. And with it in his hands, he knew that his people would prosper. They would never again have to leave Erebor, to walk the Road in search of a home. They could stay underground, in the cool and dark, where Dwarves found their greatest comfort. They could lock the daylight outside, and find their own shining light deep within the earth.

Then, without warning, the old pain from Azog's claw began anew; and though he fought it, the injury would not let itself be forgotten. It felt as if fire was licking at the back of his head, then lightning slashed in front of his vision, cutting off his view of the gem at his fingertips and forcing him to stumble back. His touch left the Arkenstone, and he fell to his knees, clutching his head as the searing radiated outward from the wound and down his neck, pushing away the more desired pain that the jewel had given him.

Fíli held his breath and gritted his teeth, and still the lights danced behind his closed eyelids. He gasped for air and forced himself to standing, wanting to again touch the Arkenstone; but when he lifted his eyes, his sight fell upon Thorin's face. Tendrils of light issuing from the open chest were playing across the surface of the dead king's pale skin, almost as if the gem was lovingly caressing him in his sleep. A strange feeling of jealousy rose in Fíli's chest and he turned to the Stone, reaching out for it; but even as his hand drew near, the fire in his mind flared again and he let his arm fall to his side.

Something in the rake of Azog's claw was pulling him away from the thing that he had only a moment ago sought to possess above all else. He heard whispers behind and within him - but these whispers were not coming from the King's Jewel. Frightened Dwarf voices were begging, warning him away from the Stone, telling him that if he rested his hand again on its icy surface, it would this time hold him tight and refuse to let go. Deep shame and fear came over him, and he shook his head and took a step back, choking on his breath and curling his fingers into a fist as the voices faded.

For good or ill, he now understood the truth behind his forefathers' madness; cold comfort though that understanding was. Why the Stone held no sway over Dáin or Thranduil or anyone else in power, he could not say, but it must have clung to the line of Durin like a jealous lover from the moment it had been unearthed. It was not a possession, but a possessor; not a tool, but a master. And it wanted to master _him_, as it had the Kings Under The Mountain before him, though he had yet to either accept or ascend to the throne.

Fíli thought then about hiding it away, about burying in some deep place where he himself could not touch it; but he could not do that, he knew, without having to tell his kin _why_. And what then? Would they think that he had imagined the words that the Stone had said to him? Would they worry that he had gone mad?

And what right did Fíli have, anyway, to do with the Arkenstone as he pleased? To either keep it for himself, or to cast it away when his uncle died so that it could be reclaimed? No, as Dáin had said, the Arkenstone should be buried with Thorin. It _must_ be buried with Thorin. In death, at least, he should be allowed to keep it, to hold it - even if his desire for it had been forced by the Arkenstone itself, that desire had been no less real.

Just as Fíli knew that his own desire for the King's Jewel would not fade; just as he knew that he would not long be able to keep himself from going to Thorin's tomb and coldly snatching the King's Jewel away, like a grave robber cutting a ring from a body.

Then the Arkenstone would rule _him_, just as it had his uncle and great-grandfather. It would whisper more tender and persuasive words to him, and he would believe what it said. Then he would be just another mad king in a line of mad kings, sitting upon a shattered throne and calling for more gold, more silver, more jewels - calling for his people to dig deeper and deeper until the Mountain crumbled around them.

A sudden resolution came over Fíli and he lunged forward, slamming shut the chest's lid and locking the light inside. He stepped back and took several long breaths, trying to fill his lungs with cool air, to force out the heat that had filled him since his fingers first brushed against the Arkenstone. But he didn't know how long his strength would last, how long he could resist reaching out for the gem again; and so he glanced once more at his brother and uncle where they lay before turning his back to both them and the chest.

"I'm leaving..." he said, just barely aloud. "I'm sorry..."

He took a step towards the tent flap, then stopped and squeezed his eyes shut, realizing that he had spoken those words not to his kin, but to the Stone.


	12. A Different Truth

**Chapt****er Twelve**

**A DIFFERENT TRUTH**

**Fíli tries to make Sigrid understand why he feels he must leave, but he cannot bring himself to tell her the truth of what happened between himself and the Arkenstone.**

* * *

Fíli drew his hood up over his head and rushed out of the tent, wishing only to make it to the Gate before the Arkenstone's call could turn him around. A few reclining Dwarves looked up when he stumbled over them, but he paid them no heed, as his eyes and all his thoughts were on the daylight ahead; and after what felt like far too long a time in the shadows, he ran out into the sunshine.

He stopped for only a moment to draw in a deep breath of cold, smoky air before he continued swiftly down the path and staggered into Bard's tent. Sigrid had not yet returned, and so he flung himself down onto the cot and flipped over onto his aching back; then he squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to will away the feeling of the King's Jewel under his skin and its whispers in his mind. He rubbed his hand against his trousers, trying to chase off the painful, though somehow pleasant burning; then he curled his fingers into a tight fist and held it to his chest as his mind lightened.

...

_Standing atop the mountains of gold, Fíli held tightly to the Arkenstone; but as he watched, the jewel first dimmed then roughened and cracked, until at last it was a very ordinary-looking rock._

_He threw it down, wondering why he had ever seen any value in it; then, looking up again, he saw his uncle and brother standing by his side. He opened his mouth to speak to them, but Kíli turned away while Thorin kneeled down and placed his fingertips gently on the dead stone._

_"You would throw it away so easily?" the elder Dwarf asked._

_Fíli knew that he wasn't speaking only of the Arkenstone._

_"We both know what comes with it, Uncle," he said. "And you know that I love you, but..."_

_"You are my heir," said Thorin. There was anger in his voice, but pain in his eyes. "I asked you to lead our people!"_

_"You asked me to be a king," said Fíli, stepping toward him. "But I am not a king. I am not like you."_

_Thorin stood and grabbed Fíli's arm. "I chose you for a reason," he yelled, shaking his nephew. "It is your right to rule our people, and your right alone! You are the son of kings!"_

_"I'm my father's son," said Fíli quickly, pulling away from his uncle. He looked over then to see his brother smiling faintly. "And that's all I'm meant to be."_

...

"Are you awake?"

Fíli felt himself being shaken. His eyes flew open and he looked quickly to the side, realizing only after he saw Sigrid that it had been her voice in his ear and her hand on his shoulder that had roused him. He sat up straight, ignoring the pain in his back and head, and looked down into his aching palm before again folding his fingers into a fist.

"How long was I asleep?" he asked, swinging his legs around and setting his feet on the dirt floor.

Sigrid shrugged and sat down next to him on the cot. "Not long, I suppose. I set the guard on a merry chase, but in the end I suggested to him that maybe I had imagined the warg's growls." A crooked smile rose to the girl's lips. "He was none too happy about being led from his charge."

"I imagine not," said Fíli; and though he was trying to sound as if he shared her humor, he was certain he had utterly failed.

"Is it time, then?"

"Time..? For what?"

"To speak with Balin. You said that after you saw your brother and uncle you would send for him."

Fíli stared at her for a moment, then looked at his hand again and straightened his fingers. They were itching and shaking, and it seemed to him that they were a bit whiter towards the tips than they had been before. Suddenly, he again felt the urge to return to the Mountain, to return to the _Stone_; and he stood and took one large stride towards the tent flap. Then he stopped and let out a heavy breath, setting both feet firmly on the ground.

"Is something wrong?" asked Sigrid.

He turned half-around and looked to where she still sat on the cot. Her hands were folded on her lap and her tired eyes were hopeful; and he wondered just what she would say if he told her the truth of what had happened in Kíli and Thorin's tent.

"Fíli?" she asked as he continued to stare wordlessly at her. "Are you alright?"

He tightened his jaw as he turned fully around; then he stepped back to the cot and lowered himself to his knees in front of Sigrid. "I can't let Balin know I'm here," he said, resting his hand on hers - though he could not bring himself to look her in the eye. "I can't let _anyone_ know."

"What are you talking about?" asked Sigrid, her voice thin.

It took all the will he could muster, but at last he locked gazes with the girl. "I have to leave."

She drew her eyebrows together. "Why? Where are you going?"

Fíli searched his mind for an answer that he felt comfortable with sharing-one that would not involve mentioning the pull of the Arkenstone-though he did not have to search for long.

It was something that he had seen in his memory time and again: his mother, standing at the door of their home, with her shoulders slumped and her eyes wet with tears as she watched her sons leave to join their uncle on his quest. They had sworn to her that they would come back, and Fíli was determined that at least part of that promise would be honored.

"The Blue Mountains," he said. "My _home_, in Ered Luin."

"But _t__his_ is your home now, isn't it?" asked Sigrid anxiously. "Why would you leave now, after it was so hard won?"

He squeezed her hand. "There's someone there. Someone I left behind, someone I promised to return to..."

Sigrid's lips parted slightly; then at once she seemed to understand, and her eyes softened. "Your mother?"

Fíli nodded; then his will weakened and he let go of her hand as he sat back onto the ground. "She's waiting for us there... and she doesn't even know that Thorin and Kíli..." His voice trailed off.

"But why leave _now_?" asked Sigrid, folding her fingers at her chin. "And why without telling your kin? You wished earlier to see them, to speak to them. What has changed since then?"

"I understand something now that I did not then," he admitted; then he dug his fingernails into his leg to keep himself from going on about exactly what that _understanding_ was. "I _must_ leave, and if anyone knows I'm here, I'll be delayed. I cannot risk that."

"Where is the risk of staying until you're healed?" asked Sigrid. "There is a far greater risk for you if you leave before your wounds have been properly treated. If you would just let the Elves..."

"The Elf I trust the most, I have heard no word of," he interrupted. "I don't even know if she still lives."

"There are many others who could help you. There are healers among the Dwarves and my own people."

"I _cannot_ stay," he said, raising his voice; then he softened his tone as he pressed the heel of his hand to his throbbing temple. "For healing or otherwise."

Why this was so difficult a thing for him to do, he could not fathom; and he wondered now why he had not just sent Sigrid away on some errand and left while she was about it. He wouldn't then have had to tell her about the thoughts and doubts shifting and twisting in his mind, he wouldn't have had to skirt around the larger truth with ones that felt like lies.

He lowered his hand and shut his eyes; and a moment later he felt Sigrid's soft fingers touch the back of his neck, just below his wound. He jumped in surprise, but he did not move away.

"You've been through so much in so short a time," she said. "Give yourself a chance to recover. I know you are confused right now, but..."

"I'm not confused," he lied, cutting her off. "Not about _this_. My mother... she has lost _everyone_. Her parents, her brother Frerin, her grandfather, _my_ father... and now Thorin and Kíli. I am the _only_ family she has left... and... if I don't go back to her, then what am I supposed to do...? I don't know what to do..."

The girl's touch left his neck, sliding instead to his shoulder. "Send for her," she said. "Bring her _here_..."

"She will not come," he said, forgetting for the moment the real reason he was leaving. "Her home has always been in the Blue Mountains, with its simpler halls and shallower mines, and little threat of it being attacked or taken away..." He reached up and grasped her hand, then lifted his head and looked towards the pile of cast-off armor in the corner. "Not like _here_. This... _place_ that would have been better left to memory and bedtime stories..."

Sigrid pressed herself to his side and wrapped her arms around him; and he clutched at her sleeve, then shifted his face and buried it in the fabric of her dress.

"Just _speak_ with your kin," she said. "Let them help you, even if you still feel that you must leave afterwards. You do not have to set out alone, nor so soon."

Fíli felt a sinking ache in his chest, and tears forced their way out of the corners of his eyes as he turned to look at the girl. "You said the orcs came to the Lake..?"

The question seemed to catch Sigrid off-guard. "They did, yes."

"Did anyone die there? Any of your people?"

"Some," she said with a slight nod.

He shook his head. "That never should have happened," he said softly. "_None_ of it should have happened. The dragon should have been left sleeping in the Mountain, the orcs should have stayed in their caves, your people should have been left in peace." He swallowed hard against the ache in his throat. "I'm sorry that I... that we came here. I'm sorry for what we brought with us."

Sigrid brushed the hairs off his brow. "You didn't know any of that would happen."

"We _should_ have known." He glanced at his still-tingling hand, then gripped her sleeve tighter to keep it from shaking. "And if I stay, it will only make things worse."

"How could you staying make it worse?" she asked. "How could your people losing another prince be a good thing? Is now not the time when they will be looking to their leaders the most?"

Fíli felt a jolt in his chest. "I _am_ a prince, but I am not..." He choked slightly on his words, then lowered his head. "Lord Dáin will rule the people of Erebor. It will be his kingdom, and his family line will be the one that comes into succession. And if I stay... if _I_ instead take the throne, there will always be questions among my kin about whether or not..."

He stopped, suddenly realizing what he was saying; then he looked up and saw that Sigrid's eyes were wide.

"Are you saying that _you_ should now be King?" she asked.

"No, I should _not_ be," he said, trying to speak with more care. "Even if _once_ I had been primed as such. The throne of Erebor is not a place that I am ready to sit, and the responsibility that comes with it is not one I am ready to take on. If I did... if I _tried_, I would fail." He did not go on to say what, exactly that failing would be - that the want of the King's Jewel would drag him down into madness and drown him there. "But I would return to the Blue Mountains and do for our people there what I can."

"You would have yourself be a king there, but not here?" asked Sigrid.

"We have no _kingdom_ in Ered Luin," said Fíli. "There is no crown, no throne, no..." ..._No Arkenstone,_ he finished silently. "There, I am a prince in name only, and only because my mother is the daughter of a king." He tried to smile at Sigrid, but it faded quickly from his lips. "As you will be one day, should your father be made king of your own people. I have already heard someone calling him _Lord Bard_."

Sigrid looked down at her torn and bloody dress. "I hardly look like nobility," she said, her cheeks reddening slightly.

"Do _I_?" asked Fíli.

She smiled faintly. "Not really, no."

He rested his hand on Sigrid's wrist. "My mother knew only what it was like to scrape and scrimp for most of her youth," he said. "And even now, she is not comfortable on a dais. She does what she can as steward in my uncle's absence, but she has always loved walking _with_ our people, never _before_ them; and while I would also walk with them, if I could, I would rather relieve her of that responsibility." He looked at Sigrid, noticing that she had a tear coursing down her face. "Can you understand that?" he asked, wiping her cheek with his thumb.

Sigrid lowered her head in a small nod, but before she could say anything, a noise from the tent flap drew their attention around. The fabric was being moved aside, and both Fíli and Sigrid rose quickly onto their feet; and as the girl made her way towards the flap, Fíli looked around for cover. There was no place to hide, though, and so he quickly made for the front corner of the tent, hoping at least to stay out of sight.

"Hold!" called Sigrid, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand; then she pulled the flap aside a bit and peeked out. "This is Lord Bard's tent," she said to whomever stood outside - and Fíli imagined that he heard a sense of pride creep into her words. "What business do you have here?"

Fíli heard a deep, agitated voice outside, though he could not make out much of what the visitor was saying. Sigrid's voice, however, was much more clear.

"No, I'm afraid I don't know," she said; then after a pause she went on. "Could it have been the wind?"

There was a frustrated _harrumph_ from outside, and the stranger-whom Fíli now knew to be a Dwarf-spoke louder, to the point where Fíli could understand what he was saying.

"There is no breeze in the tunnel," he said indignantly.

"Well, I had nothing to do with it," Sigrid told him. "I was with you the whole time."

"So you were! Chasing imaginary wargs while..."

"Did you need anything else?" asked Sigrid curtly.

"...While _someone_ was seen leaving the King's tent," the stranger went on. "Either a boy or a Dwarf..."

"And I am clearly _neither_," said Sigrid, cutting him off again. "Now may I get back to my business in peace?"

The Dwarf let out a sound that was very nearly a growl. "You may!" he said. "But expect to be revisited about this sooner rather than later!"

"With an apology from you, I am sure!" Sigrid yelled out as the visitor walked away. "Once you realize that I could not have been in two places at once!" She closed the flap, then let her hands fall to her sides as she turned to Fíli. "Did you hear all that?"

Fíli shook his head. "Just some."

"You left your uncle and brother uncovered. The guard knows that somebody was in the tent."

"I don't want to make any trouble for you," he told her apologetically.

Sigrid shrugged. "As far as anyone might know, someone just went in to pay their respects."

"Well, that _is_ what happened, after all."

The young Woman stepped over to him. "Is there _no_ reason you would stay?" she asked, resting her hand on his slung arm. "If only for a while?"

At once, Fíli realized that he had made Sigrid understand his desire to leave - though it pained him knowing that her understanding was not based on complete honesty. He smiled gently at her. "There are many reasons I _would_ stay, if I could," he said. "And though my reasons for leaving are fewer, they are far greater."

She lowered her head. "Will you come back?"

Fíli reached up and slid his fingers under her chin, lifting her face until he could see her eyes clearly. "I cannot say what will happen in the future," he told her. "But I don't expect that I will make my way here again. It is better that I stay where I will be needed."

"You are needed _here_," she said; then she bit her lip, as if to silence herself.

"The people of Erebor have Dáin now," said Fíli. "And Balin and Bofur, and... any others who may be left of the Company. My mother has only _me_."

Sigrid grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "Then go to her. Go home... do what you must."

A warmth rose in his chest with the feeling that this permission had been needed - regardless as to whom had given it. Before he could stop himself, he reached out and drew her into a hug, and she laughed lightly and wrapped her arms around him in return.

"I know I should not be asking this of you," he said against her hair, "and I will not make you swear to it, but please do not tell anyone that you saw me."

"It _will_ become known what happened to you in time. What _then_ will you have to say to those who think you dead?"

Fíli pulled out of the embrace. "I will tell them the truth," he said, though he was a bit shamed that he had not shared that full truth with Sigrid. "But for now, I wish for it to remain a secret."

She tilted her chin up. "And _why_ should I keep that secret?"

"Because you said that you would not do anything that the wounded asked you not to," he told her, managing a genuine, though faint smile. "That _was_ what you said, wasn't it?"

"Once you leave this tent, you are no longer in my care," said Sigrid, crossing her arms with an air of authority, "and I will be under no obligation to do what you ask of me. But I _will_ give you a short time - a head start, though I will risk you being angry with me if it means you will get the healing you need. And in any case, your kin deserve to know what became of you. I will not keep _that_ as a secret for long."

Fíli pursed his lips. "I suppose you're right," he said. "Tell them whenever you feel it is best to do so."

"If you really felt that way, then you would not object to me telling them right this minute."

"Should I keep an eye on the road behind me as I go?" he asked with a touch of humor. "Should I expect to find myself being followed?"

"Perhaps," said Sigrid. "I doubt your friends and kin will be so eager to let you go once they know you still live."

"_You_ would not be the one doing the following, would you?" Fíli asked, raising an eyebrow. "I don't think that you could drag me back, yourself, even though you may be a bit stronger than I am right now."

Sigrid let out a quick laugh. "Solid ground feels strange enough under my feet after spending my life walking on creaking wood," she said. "And I am certainly not made for chasing down and dragging back Dwarves - or even for the road at all, I think!"

"I am not much ready for it, myself," confessed Fíli. "I know how to pack quickly and well, but I don't quite know where to find in this camp all that I might need."

"Then it is well for you that my father is _not_ yet a king," said Sigrid, grinning. "Because it sounds to me that you could use the help of a _smuggler's_ daughter."


	13. The Road Ahead

**Chapter Thirteen**

**THE ROAD AHEAD**

**With the decision to leave set firmly in Fíli's mind, he must now both prepare for the journey and decide which road will be the best one to take him home.**

* * *

While Sigrid was out in the camp searching for food and other supplies that might come in handy along the road, Fíli himself looked through the open crates that were sitting around Bard's tent. To his disappointment, most of what he found would have been of little use to him on a long march - though the certainty of further injury compelled him to gather a fair number of bandages, several sewing needles, and a ball of fine thread.

After stowing it all neatly in the bottom of the pack that Sigrid had brought in earlier in the day, he sat on the cot and waited patiently for the girl's return; and it was, in fact, not very long before she walked in with a bulging burlap sack in her hand and a bundle of water-skins slung over her shoulder. She set them down beside Fíli without a word, then she reached behind herself and drew a hand-axe out of the belt of her apron.

"There are a lot of weapons on the field today," she said sadly, handing the axe to Fíli. "But I didn't figure that you would want one that was too heavy until your arm gets better. And at least this will serve you as a tool, as well."

He looked the axe over, examining its condition and weighing it for balance. Its curved head was a fine bit of Man-crafted iron, and its handle was well-shaped from ash-wood; and except for a small notch near the tip, it looked as if it had seldom been used, even for its original purpose of hewing branches. It was almost disconcertingly clean, though, and he wondered if the previous wielder had even managed to take a single swipe at the enemy before he had been struck down.

Fíli gave Sigrid a tight-lipped smile, then he set the axe down on the cot and drew the burlap sack onto his lap. Before he could look inside, however, he saw the young Woman lifting the hem of her skirt; and he watched on curiously as she revealed the leather-sheathed blade she had strapped to her leg.

"I thought you might also need a knife," she said, unfastening the straps that held the hunting-dagger to her calf. She walked around to his right side and kneeled down. "This was the sharpest one I could find."

The Dwarf nodded appreciatively. "A healer, a princess, _and_ a smuggler," he said, grinning softly as she secured the sheath to his boot. "You are going to go far in this world."

"Not as far as _you_ will, perhaps," she said quietly. "In any sense of the term."

The small smile faded from Fíli's lips, and he lowered his eyes to examine the knife's carved-bone handle before looking up towards the girl. "Anything else?" he asked, trying to make his words sound light. "Dare I ask if there is something hidden in your braid?"

She held up a finger, as if to tell him to wait a moment; then she stood and drew a small sachet out of her sleeve and a flint out of the pocket of her apron, handing them both to Fíli.

"Well, I _did_ ask," he said, sniffing the sachet. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Kingsfoil?"

"I never knew that it had any use," said Sigrid. "At least, not until Tauriel..." She stopped suddenly and sat down on the cot next to Fíli. "The Elves brought some fresh leaves with them, but most of it came in with the Dwarves. Your kind seem to prefer it dried and ground like this."

Fíli breathed in the scent from the sachet again, enjoying the rush of warmth it sent into his chest, then he placed it and the flint on top of the bandages in his pack. "We use it mainly for fevers and headaches," he said. "The Elves seem to have far more uses for it, though. And they certainly hold it in much higher regard than my own folk do."

"To be honest, I think there's more in their words than there is in the herb," said Sigrid. "I noticed that the wounded were healed a lot faster when they spoke over them, either with or without the kingsfoil."

She looked at Fíli out of the corner of her eye; and he could not tell whether she was still hinting that she thought he should stay for healing, or that she feared that she might have dredged up memories of Tauriel speaking over Kíli in her home. In either case, he pretended not to notice; then he casually opened the sack that he had sitting on his lap. Inside, he found nuts, dried fruits, more cram, a small packet of salt, and a leather-wrapped bundle of preserved meat - all foods that were well-suited for travel.

"For someone who has never gone very far, you seem to know well enough what is needed for a long journey," he said, securing the sack again, then placing it on the ground.

"_I_ have not gone far, but my father travels often," Sigrid told him. "Or he _used_ to, anyway. I don't suppose he'll have much cause to run barrels anymore."

"Perhaps not. Life on land will be much different from life on the Lake."

Her shoulder rose in a slight shrug "I heard talk among some of the Men that Dale would be the best place for us to settle now, though some others said they would rather go back and rebuild Laketown. I am not sure where my people will end up."

"Both places are likely," said Fíli. "There will still be need for fishermen, and trade with the Elves will not end, so I don't expect the Lake will be wholly abandoned. Though I suppose some of your folk would prefer to take a greater hand in trade with the Dwarves and stay in Dale. Either way, there are a lot of changes coming for _everyone_ in the region."

He let his eyes lose focus for a moment as he thought about how very striking those changes would be, and how fascinating the rebuilding would be to watch.

The mines of Erebor would certainly reopen, so gold and iron and gems would flow out of the Mountain once more. Brisk commerce would return to the area, there would be an influx of Dwarven craftsman and laborers, people of all kinds would come from far off places to ply their trades and bring even more wealth and culture to the area. The field between Erebor and Dale might well be turned and planted with crops, trees would regrow on the mountainside, the Ravens would again carry messages between the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain and their distant kin.

And at the heart of it all would be the Dwarf-King, sitting on his rebuilt throne and guiding his people through every step they took along the way. But that thought in particular troubled Fíli, and so he shook it away before he could let himself be pulled too deeply into it, then he turned to Sigrid again.

"Did your father say anything about what _he_ thought should be done?"

Sigrid jumped - as if she, herself, had been pulled suddenly out of a daydream. "I haven't seen much of him today," she said, rubbing her eyes. "He may be off somewhere going over things with the Elf-king or Balin or..." She looked at Fíli. "Was his name _Dáin_?"

Fíli nodded, and Sigrid went on.

"But if I know my father, he's likely had his fill of talk ,and went out to help with the recovery." She lowered her eyes. "To help with the _dead_. Bain has been out there most of the day, and he told me that a lot of folks don't want to put their friends and kin in the fires, so they chose to help in burning the enemy, instead." She let out a shaky breath. "He said there are still a lot of Elves and Dwarves and Men that need to be brought off the field. I suppose if there is any task my father has placed on himself, it would be that."

Fíli turned away, not quite knowing what to say; then he shifted his sight down towards the pile of bloody rags that still sat not very far from his feet. Nearby lay the shears that had been used to cut his mustache and hair that morning, and without stopping to think, he picked them up and turned them over in his hand, examining the bloody strands that still clung to the blades.

"Do you want to take them?" asked Sigrid.

Fíli looked at her briefly before sliding the shears into his pack. "I suppose I might make use of them at some point."

"Is there anything else you think you'll need?"

"I would not want to take more from those in the camp than I already have. Life here will be difficult enough for a long while, without so many supplies coming up missing."

"The food might well have been counted as your share of the ration, anyway, so you needn't feel wrong in taking it. But what about spare clothing? Is what you are wearing going to be enough?"

"I don't expect that I'll care much if these ones are dirtied along the way," he said, rubbing his hand over his trouser leg. "And I have needles and thread for mending them, if need-be."

He leaned down and flipped the pack-flap over, then tried to secure it with one hand; but Sigrid saw his struggle and gently pushed his hand aside so to fix the buckle shut herself. He gritted his teeth at the pain in his back as he sat up once more, then he nodded in appreciation.

"How far away is your home?" she asked.

"Pretty far. I'm not sure of the miles, but it will take me at least a few months to get there."

She turned her eyes aside. "Then this definitely does not seem like enough."

"No matter how much you take on a long journey, it is almost _never_ enough."

Sigrid let out a little laugh. "So my father tells us," she said. "And that you _always_ end up forgetting something."

Fíli smiled ruefully, remembering the fuss that Bilbo had made about leaving his pocket handkerchiefs behind in Hobbiton; then he sighed and slumped his shoulders. Beside him, Sigrid yawned and looked down at the hair- and blood-covered blanket that they were sitting on.

"Have you at least checked the crates for a bedroll?" she asked.

"I didn't see any in the open boxes," Fíli replied; though he admitted silently to himself that he hadn't even thought to search for one. "And I didn't have any tools to get into the others."

The young Woman picked up his axe and tilted her head. "You do now," she told him, grinning tiredly.

She moved to the end of the cot and dragged a crate out into the open, then slid the axe-blade under the lid and twisted. There was a loud, splintering _crack_, and the lid fell to the dirt; then the girl set the axe back down on the cot and began digging through the crate as Fíli watched her in silence. After a few seconds, she seemed to notice that she was being stared at, and she glanced over at him before returning her attention to her task.

"Do you know the route you are going to take?" she asked.

Fíli shrugged. If he was going to be honest, he really had not thought about which way he should go. He had studied many maps over the years, and he had spoken at length with Thorin about the path they _would_ have taken eastwards, had things gone more according to plan - but most of what he'd learned from both sources was now hidden deep in crumbling memories, and all his current plans were based solely on finding the road west and not leaving it until he got to where he was bound.

Even so, he knew that though the Road may have once been straight and somewhat safe, it was now twisting and broken, with many forks which might lead him to a bad end if he took the wrong path. The only thing that he _was_ certain of concerned the ways he would _not_ go; and though he thought, at first, of telling Sigrid that he was going to take a different route so she could not too soon send his kin after him, he decided in the end that it would be best to tell her the truth, so that anyone that followed would not come to bad places in their search.

"I will not go north," he said after a moment. "It is not very far around the Forest that way, but it would bring me too close to the Withered Heath for my liking."

Sigrid shoved the crate aside and pulled another one out from under the cot, then grabbed the axe and forced off the lid as she had done with the first one. "What's the _Withered Heath_?"

"Dragon breeding grounds," he told her. "Or, at least, they _used_ to breed there. Not many of our folk have gone to the Grey Mountains in recent years, so I cannot be sure if the dragons are still an issue. Either way, I would hate to get there and find the hard way that they are still on-guard."

"I don't think I would want to take that risk, either," said Sigrid quickly. She stood and let out a frustrated breath, seemingly because she hadn't found what she wanted to in the crate; then she picked up the axe once more and headed towards the table where the wash basin sat. "So, you will go south, then?"

Fíli rubbed his chin thoughtfully; then he slid his touch up to tug on his mustache before remembering that most of it was gone. "Not too far south," he told her, lowering his hand again to his lap. "It would take many months just to get around the bottom edge of the Forest, and if there is any truth in what I heard about the terrain of the Brown Lands, then it would take longer still to navigate the swamps and meres."

"Then which way are you..." She stopped, looking around to him with her mouth hanging open. "You are not going to go _through_ Mirkwood?"

He pressed his lips tightly together and nodded, but said nothing; and Sigrid kneeled down next to the last sealed crate and forcefully pried the lid off. She stood and kicked the box over, spilling the contents onto the ground rather than searching carefully through as she had done with the first two, then she looked at the mess for a few seconds before stalking back to the cot with the axe held tightly in her grip.

"Get up," she ordered, first tossing the weapon onto the dirt, then tugging on the corner of the blanket that the Dwarf was sitting on. "There is no bedding in the crates, so this will have to do."

Fíli obeyed without hesitation, grabbing the water-skins and stepping to the side as the young Woman yanked the woolen blanket off the cot and shook it. He clutched the skins to his chest and held his breath as the trimmed ends of his hair flew into the air; then he took a step back and squinted as she shook the blanket again.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asked.

"The Elves will never allow you to go through the Forest," she said bluntly, laying the blanket back down on the cot and folding it over.

"Perhaps they would not normally, but most of them are... well, I suppose they are _busy_ at the moment," he said. "And if I remember rightly, south of the Long Marshes there's a path that will bring me some distance from the Wood-Elves ken. That is, if the land has not changed too much since the maps I once read were drawn."

She started to roll the blanket up, then looked at Fíli with narrowed eyes before returning her attention to her task in silence. There was now even greater agitation on her face, though, and he cleared his aching throat almost nervously before going on.

"I have been through the Forest once already, so I will at least know some of what to expect..." He stopped, choosing not to mention either the troubles he and the Company had encountered the first time through, or the fact that they had not actually _walked_ the entire way.

"The _path_ you are speaking of is the Old Forest Road," said Sigrid as she finished rolling the blanket. "It is quite some distance south-west of the Lake - some fifty miles at the least, or maybe even closer to a hundred. And the Marshes have spread in recent years and have swallowed up the trailhead, so you mightn't even be able to find that road in the first place."

Fíli shook his head incredulously. "How do you know that?" he asked. "You have never _been_ there?"

Sigrid kneeled and began tying the blanket to the bottom of his pack. "My father has had to travel that way more than once," she said. "And always he returns with stern warnings to never go near that road. He told us that it lies south of the mountains that divide Mirkwood, and it is overgrown and nigh impassable - and that there are far greater threats _there_ than there are on the northern path."

The Dwarf's eyes widened as he wondered how much worse those threats could be than the Man-sized spiders, disorienting aura, life-sapping river, and mysterious white stag that he and the Company had already come across in the Northern Forest. Still, despite those dangers and challenges that he knew waited under Mirkwood's gnarled boughs, it was a chance he preferred to take rather than staying at Erebor and dealing with the Arkenstone.

The mere thought of the King's Jewel sent a shudder through his body, and his heart began to pound hard against his ribs. He gripped the water-skins tighter to his chest; and when Sigrid saw this, she stood and grabbed them from him, then she looked them over and pulled one out of the bunch.

"This one's wine," she said, uncorking it and holding it out to him. "I thought that maybe you might like something different at some point along the way. Or, anyway, that it might keep you warm on a cold night."

Fíli sniffed at the mouth of the skin and raised an eyebrow at the strong, pleasant scent; but before he could say anything, Sigrid pulled the wine-skin away and pounded the cork back into place.

"But you're likely to die in the Forest before you'll need it, anyway," she said, throwing the skins onto the cot and folding her arms tightly across her chest. "That is, if you even make it a league before your injuries catch up to you."

There was anger in her tone, but concern showed in her downturned eyes and the set of her jaw. Fíli placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently.

"You don't need to worry about..." he began, but she did not give him the chance to go on.

"Do not tell me what I need to worry about," she nearly yelled, uncrossing her arms and placing a finger to his chest. "And do not for one moment forget that you are leaving me here with the knowledge that I may likely have helped you..." She lowered her hands and doubled her fists at her sides. "That I may have helped a _prince_, of all people, run off to his death."

Fíli's breaths stopped for a moment and he felt his chest started to ache. She _was_ right, after all. Drawing her into his plans, seeking her help in leaving, asking her not to tell anyone that she had seen him - all of it had been wrong of him, and he could only imagine how she must now feel about the whole situation, or how she would try to resolve it on her end after he left. He reached out and took gentle hold of her wrist, noting how fast her pulse was under his own shaking fingers, and though he feared she would pull away, she instead relaxed her tensed arm.

"I'm sorry," he said, shifting his hand around to grip hers. "It was... it was unfair of me to ask all that I have of you."

"I know why you feel you must leave," she said, softening both her voice and her gaze. "But why must you go _through_ Mirkwood? Going around might take longer, but it would be far safer."

"It _might_ be safer. Neither of us can say that for certain, and the longer road could very well lead to places still worse."

She squeezed his hand tightly. "My father said _never_ to go into the Forest. He said that there are more than Wood-Elves to worry about there. More frightening things, more _dangerous_ things."

Fíli smiled crookedly. "Then they had best make a clear path for me," he said, trying to sound confident. "Because there is little that is more frightening or more dangerous than a Dwarf waylaid on his road home."

Sigrid lowered her eyes again and opened her mouth to speak, but as she did, the tent flap was lifted and she spun around towards it. Fíli quickly lifted his cloak-hood over his head and turned his back to the person who was now entering; then he heard a yawn issue from a young mouth.

"I thought you were sleeping," a girl's small voice said, and he recognized it as belonging to Bard's younger daughter.

"Not yet," said Sigrid, then she let out a long, relieved breath. "I've been taking care of some things first."

Fíli peeked past his hood at Tilda as she made her way to the cot. She looked as tired and worn-down as her sister; and although there was no blood on her torn dress, her hair was tousled and her face was dirty and her small feet scuffed across the dirt as she walked.

She motioned towards Fíli, though she did not look at him. "Who's this?" she asked. "You should get him out before Da learns you have a boy in the tent. He prob'ly won't like that."

Sigrid pulled the Dwarf a few steps towards the tent flap. "It's alright," she said softly. "He's leaving in a minute."

Tilda shoved the water- and wine-skins off the cot, then flopped down on her chest. A moment later she lifted herself up slightly and looked down. "Where's the blanket?" she asked. "And why is there hair everywhere?"

"Don't worry about it, I'll clean it up," Sigrid told her sister; then she gripped Fíli's hand tightly for a few seconds before letting go and making her way back to the cot. "Where are Da and Bain?"

The younger girl laid down on her side and curled up with her face towards Sigrid. "I dunno," she said. "I think they're busy at the fires."

Sigrid sat on the ground and placed her hand on the top of Tilda's head. "You look tired, darling..."

"I almost fell asleep in the healing-tent..."

"Then go ahead and close your eyes, now," said Sigrid as she gently began to run her hand over her sister's hair. "Get some rest."

The young woman began to hum a slow song, and Tilda shut her eyes; and Fíli felt a lightness in his chest as he listened to the easy and calming lullaby. After a few seconds, he drew in a deep breath and stepped close, then bent over painfully and spoke to Sigrid.

"Will there be any trouble?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

Sigrid shrugged slightly and rested her head on the cot, then continued to hum her song; and Fíli placed a hand on her shoulder for a moment before turning away and kneeling down next to his pack. He slid his left arm out of the sling, gritting his teeth against the pain in his elbow and trying not to make a sound that might draw Tilda's attention; then he tied the food-sack and drinking-skins as best he could to the straps before struggling the pack onto his shoulders.

It was distressingly heavy, but he knew that it would only be a matter of time before his strength returned and it would not seem like such a burden. All the same, he could not bring himself up onto his feet just yet; and when he noticed that Sigrid had fallen silent, he shifted around on his knees and rested a hand on the young Woman's back. Her breaths were long and deep, and her hand had slipped off of her sister's hair; and at once, Fíli realized that she had finally managed to fall into the sleep that he had been keeping her from.

He lifted his hand from her back, then ran his touch along her braid. He thought, for a moment, of touching his brow to hers in farewell; but he quickly chased away the idea, and instead simply brushed the stray hairs off of her forehead before bringing his mouth close to her ear.

"I have to go now," he whispered. "Thank you for everything."

Sigrid made a little noise and breathed deeper for a moment, then she settled back down in her sleep; and Fíli struggled at last to his feet and lowered his head, looking down at his still-tingling fingers. He shook his hand hard, then reached over and eased his left arm back into the sling before turning away from the cot and making his way towards the tent flap.

Once there, though, he stopped and gripped the canvas. He knew that this was the wrong way to leave, but as he heard the Arkenstone's voice still echoing in his thoughts and felt the burning in his fingers and the tugging at the back of his mind, he also knew that he could risk staying no longer. By slipping away like this, he told himself, he could at least pretend that he would not be missed, would not be pursued, would soon be forgotten; and so, he threw the canvas flap aside and stepped out into the cold, smoky air.


	14. The Remains

**Chapter Fourteen**

**THE REMAINS**

**Weapons and armor and blood still remain on the field between Erebor and Dale, and as Fíli makes his way past them, he begins to consider the impact of his actions during the Battle.**

* * *

Fíli kept his head down as he made his way past the many tents that he knew were filled with the sleeping, the healing, and the dying. When he dared to look to the side, he noticed for the first time that a few of those tents were the compact, sturdy type favored by Dwarves on long journeys; though there were also a fair number of cobbled-together Mannish shelters, and the largest and most well-constructed tents seemed to be of Elf-make.

That also meant, he realized, that the sizable one in which Thorin and Kíli now rested had likely been provided by Thranduil; and he shook his head at the thought of what his uncle would have to say about being laid out within something that had been made by Elf hands. It was possible, anyway, that Thorin might have at least tolerated it after taking into account that the Wood-Elves had proven themselves allies to the Dwarves in the Battle; though Kíli would have had no qualms with it at all - and Fíli imagined, with grim humor, his uncle and brother sitting in some far-off place, arguing about whether or not a smaller, Dwarf-made tent would have served the purpose just as well.

Smiling sadly, Fíli turned his face down again as he continued making his way from the Gate. Before long, the toe of his boot hit unexpectedly against something and he stopped in mid-step. He realized only then that he had let his eyes lose focus as he had been walking along, and he had to blink hard several times before his vision cleared enough for him to be able to tell that the object he had nearly tripped over was the hilt of a broken sword.

Shifting his eyes up, he saw then that he had gone beyond the camp and was now on the battlefield. A quarter-mile or so away, both to his right and in front of him, people were milling about, gathering the dead and loading them onto already-laden sledges; but though there were many weapons and armor pieces lying on the ground near the camp, there were no bodies close-at-hand.

Those casualties had likely been the first to be carted off, since the survivors would not long have wanted to be forced to look at the dead. Their removal had not, however, gotten rid of the smell of blood that had seeped into the dirt; and though the rain from the night before had washed some of that blood away, most of it had diluted and flowed together, blending the black and the red into a sickening brown. In places there were still to be found bold patches of blood that marked where the dead had been taken off the field that morning, and Fíli gritted his teeth, trying to force down a wave of nausea when he saw that some of the stains were accompanied by viscera and bits of torn flesh.

Returning his attention to the ground at his feet, he turned somewhat to the left and went on - this time with more careful steps, so that he would not stumble. But as he pressed forward, he felt himself beginning to walk slower and slower; though he could not himself tell whether the slowing was because of the weight of his pack, the need to work his way around the remains of the Battle, or the stress of his wounds. He was sure, anyway, that he hadn't yet gone very far, and though he did not want to see how much further the field of battle extended, he was forced to admit to himself that did not know if he was even heading in the right direction.

At last he felt that he had no other choice but to lift his eyes and search for the sun, hoping that it would guide him south and eastwards enough so that he might be able to skirt around Dale without drawing too near to it. When he looked up, however, his attention fell instead on the two columns of black smoke that first cut up into the sky then flowed on a low breeze towards the Mountain. He traced the nearer line of smoke to the ground and saw that the pyre on which the Men and Dwarves and Elves burned was much closer than he'd originally thought - but thankfully not close enough that he could clearly see the able-bodied lifting the dead from the goat-pulled sledges and placing them at the edge of the flames.

Where the fuel for the pyres had come from, Fíli could not say, as there were few trees near the Mountain, and those that _were_ there were small and gnarled. It was at least possible, he thought, that there was some century-old wood somewhere within Erebor or Dale, stacked next to long-cold hearths and forges, or scavenged from falling and rotten mine scaffolding. The same wood had likely been used to construct the biers where Kíli and Thorin rested, and he wondered if the survivors would end up running low enough on pyre fuel that they would choose to break Fíli's own unoccupied bier apart for the wood.

Near to the fire there were what at first looked like large boulders, but as Fíli walked along and the light shifted, he guessed from the glare that they were actually piles of armor that had been stripped from the dead. Balin had told him once about how they had done the same at Azanulbizar; and that the surviving Dwarves from that battle had then carried it all off on their already aching and weary backs, so that the goblins and orcs could not make use of it. Here, though, the armor's removal was likely a matter of the bodies burning better if they were bare, or of the rain-wetted clothing hampering the flames - or, perhaps, the survivors just did not want something to go to waste if it could still be of some use.

Balin had also once told him that while most of the dead had been burned on the pyre at Moria, the number of those that had been given a more dignified send-off in the form of a cairn had numbered only four. Those few had been among the nobility: Náin, Fundin, Frerin, and Thrór - though the King's burial was not complete, as his severed head had come up missing in the wake of the battle.

But though it seemed that there would be only two Dwarves laid under stone here at Erebor, it was certain that three tombs would be carved, even if one of them would serve only to honor a dead prince that had somehow vanished off the field after the Battle's end. It was not, in fact, lost to Fíli that his grandfather Thráin had also disappeared in such a way - except for the small detail that nobody had actually _seen_ Thráin's body, and so it had been thought rash to memorialize him with a grave outside of Khazad-dûm.

It was likely, anyway, that Sigrid would tell Fíli's kin about his survival long before his tomb could be carved-or before it could be _completed_-though he hoped that she would give him some fair amount of time before she did so. Once he got far enough away from the Mountain, it wouldn't matter if they knew he still lived, it wouldn't matter if they came after him. Distance would ease the pulling of the Arkenstone on his mind, then he would be able to tell them why he left. And if Balin himself came after Fíli, then nothing would _need_ to be said. He would know without having to be told, and he would understand Fíli's decision; though whether or not he would accept it was far from certain.

After a while of slow progress, Fíli noticed that the crisp sunlight had begun to reflect brighter off the fallen weapons and shields that lay all around him, making the air feel somehow colder than it had the night before; but still, he was inclined to stare at the metal and study its craftsmanship in order to chase away grimmer thoughts. All Dwarves, after all, loved those things that came from the earth: stone carved, gems faceted, metals wrought and unwrought. Fíli himself had always marveled as much at the feeling of a delicate gold chain slipping between his fingers as he had the heaviness of an iron mace held tightly in his grip; though his very favorite things were those with edges - sharpened swords, curved axes, finely-pointed parrying daggers.

But the weapons here were _wrong_; they were horrible and out-of-place. They had cut through Men's bellies, hewed off Elves' heads, crushed Dwarves' skulls. Even the weapons that Fíli knew had been wielded by the defenders looked dirty and corrupted, as if the black blood that they had spilled had managed to seep into the metal and foul it. He wondered if it might, in fact, be better if they weren't saved for future use, but rather burned with the dead; he wondered if maybe the heat would cleanse them, even if they were not wholly consumed and melted by the flames.

Suddenly, Fíli halted in his steps and lifted his head as a pulling at the back of his mind told him that he was in a place he _knew_. He looked around, searching the ground for something familiar that might have given him that feeling; then he turned to the side and saw a large boulder not more than twenty feet from where he stood. He tilted his head curiously, then shifted his course towards the great stone. When he got there, he ran his fingers across the boulder's rough surface as he walked slowly around it; but when he came to the far side, he froze.

Though the rain had washed it away, Fíli knew that there had once been a puddle of red on the ground there from where he had coughed up a mouthful of blood the night before - from where he had landed after Azog had tossed him aside. Fíli slid his hand off the stone and pressed it to his mouth as a sick feeling rose in his stomach; then he swallowed hard and tried to straighten himself up, wincing at the pain in his lower back as it reminded him that it had not been quite so long ago that he had been lying on the ground in this very place.

He had been in pain, weakened, choking on his own blood, fighting for breath. But he hadn't stayed here. He'd had a reason not to just lie down and save his own life by letting Azog think he was already dead. Digging through his hazy recollections, he managed to force out the direction in which he had crawled; and so he turned and looked towards where his brother had died.

It would take him only a few steps to get there, he knew, though the night before it had felt like ages before he had gotten to Kíli's side; but before he took more than one step, his attention was lured away by a flash of bold light to his left. He squinted in that direction for a moment, then turned fully aside and made his way to the object that had drawn his gaze.

When he reached it, shock and fear brought Fíli to a standstill as his eyes came to rest on the sleek steel shaft of Azog's clawed arm. He started to breathe fast and his head began to swim; then he tightened his jaw resolutely, reminding himself that Azog could do him no more harm than he already had - reminding himself that the pale orc and his white warg were by now burning on a pyre.

He stepped over to the limb and cautiously nudged it with his toe, almost expecting it to leap up and attack him of its own volition; then he shook his head and lowered himself to a knee. Running his fingers along the metal, he found that it was almost glass-smooth, and so cold from the winter air that he thought for a moment that his fingers might freeze to it. Up close like this, it looked less like steel and more like silver, and despite all of the foul use it must have had, there did not seem to be so much as a scratch on its sleek surface.

Ignoring the warning in his own thoughts to leave it be, Fíli let his hand close around the thick bar; and as his grip tightened, he almost imagined he heard distant Dwarven voices telling him that this was a wondrous thing. The voices were both strange and compelling; and without stopping to think about whether or not he _should_, he lifted the limb off the ground. It was far lighter than it appeared, and it shone much more brilliantly in the sunlight than he thought such a vicious weapon could; and when he turned it over, his jaw slacked at how the light caught on the claw-points and made them shine like faceted gems.

It was an ugly thing to wield, but somehow beautiful to look at, and for many long seconds Fíli considered claiming it for himself as a trophy. But as his eyes travelled up and down the metal, he began to feel disgust creeping into his chest. The voices in his mind shifted from proclaiming wonder to crying out in terror, as they'd done when he had tried to lay his hand on the Arkenstone for a second time; and when he at last let his sight come to rest on the longest of the claws, the back of his head began to burn.

Fíli again felt the metal tearing the skin on his scalp, piercing his skull; but before the feeling could go any deeper, he rose to his feet and drew his arm back, then threw Azog's cast-off limb as far away from himself as he could manage. He listened to the clear ringing sound of it striking some far-away weapon or piece of armor, then he curled his right hand into a fist and pressed his slung left arm hard against his ribs as the voices first faded to whispers, then vanished completely.

He took several deep, shaky breaths that seemed to do nothing to clear the heaviness from his lungs; then he turned and made his way swiftly to the place where he had left his brother on the field hours before - where he had told Kíli to wait for him. There was little to see there now, little to prove that either he or Kíli had been left on that spot with their faces covered and their hands placed together; though as he looked around, he did see things that were familiar to him.

His orc-shield and blackened great-axe lay nearby; as did the arrow with which Kíli had killed the giant white warg, and which had subsequently gone through Fíli's arm and into Azog's chest. He saw, also, the backsword that he had himself killed the lesser warg with, the snapped spear-shaft that Thorin had thrown down, and Azog's great mace. What he did not see, though, was what he wished to find the most - the thing that, if he could hand it to his mother, would save him from having to tell her in so many words that her younger son was not coming home.

If Kíli's rune-stone was on the battlefield somewhere, he knew he would not be able to find it without searching under every piece of fallen armor or digging through the blood-soaked dirt for hours, days, weeks. But any other survivors who came along to gather the remnants of war would likely see it as nothing more than a common rock and leave it where it lay. Then the field would one day be turned and planted, and far under the grasping roots of a fresh crop the stone would remain - as Kíli would remain at the Mountain, laid under a great slab of stone; mourned by a few friends, and given cursory honors by many people that did not know him.

He knew, at least, that Thorin would be remembered in stories and songs as a hero in the history of Erebor. _Thorin II Oakenshield, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain_, the carving on his tomb would read. A King for a moment, only; but the King that led the reclamation of their homeland.

On Fíli's own tomb, there would be few words to carve; except those that said that he _would_ have been King one day, had he not died young. At the funeral, his kin might well mention how he had always been there in support of Thorin; but in keeping with speaking well of the dead, it would not be told how he had openly questioned his uncle, had disobeyed his orders, and had taken private counsel with Balin regarding him.

Nothing would be said about how he had failed to save the King's life, nor would they say anything about how he had not protected his brother when it mattered the most. Nobody would tell how, with Kíli's death, he had also broken the promise that he had made to their mother. It would never be known beyond his kin how he had failed in every charge that had been set before him, how he had broken every oath - how, even with his own death, he had failed to save the people he was sworn to protect.

An ache sank into his chest, and he furrowed his brow as he shook his head hard. He had _not_ died, and the thought that he'd had to remind himself of that shocked and frightened him. His eyes began to sting and blur, and at once tears fell hot and fast down his cheeks.

Kíli should not have rushed at Azog; Thorin should not have given his last measure of energy running a spear through the orc's chest. If they'd have waited-if they'd have held back for only _minutes_-Beorn would have come and killed Azog before he could have killed _them_. Then the eagles would have finished off the rest of the enemy, and the Battle would have ended with Kíli and Thorin alive. There would have been only one bier to build, only one tomb to fill; Thorin would still be a King, and in Kíli, the King would still have an heir.

Fíli choked, then his shoulders slumped and his back bowed under the weight of his pack. As he fell to his knees, a shock of pain travelled up his spine; but he ignored it as he began clutching at the darkened dirt, wanting nothing more at that moment than to pull his uncle and brother out of the earth. He did not want to have to tell his mother what he had done, what he had _failed_ to do; he did not want to tell her that Thorin and Kíli were gone, he did not want to tell her that they might still be alive, if it had not been for _him_.

His breath stopped at the top of his burning throat, and he grabbed a handful of bloody dirt, then slammed it back to the ground. It was _wrong_ to feel this way, he knew - to be wrapped up in pity for himself, when Thorin and Kíli would never see another sunrise or speak another word. But still he could not chase the away the ache, could not stop thinking about what he would now have to do, and that he could never make up for failing to do what he _should_ have done.

Turning his face up, he first looked at the frightfully cold and bright blue sky, then shut his eyes against it. He wondered bitterly if it would be better if he didn't make it all the way back to Ered Luin, if he came to some bad end along the road; then maybe someone would find him and return him to Erebor, and lay him in his tomb beside his brother and uncle. Or maybe, he thought, he could lie down _here_, where he _should_ have died last night. Maybe he could will himself to sleep, and in his sleep, will himself to fade, to drift, to join Kíli and Thorin wherever they waited.

But he knew that he could not do that now, any more than he could have done it hours ago, when he _had_ been dying. If he were to stay here, they would find him. His kin, his allies, his friends - they would be happy to see that he still lived, and they would bring him back to Erebor, not knowing how he had failed them all. They would seek healing for him, he would recover from his wounds, he would accept the throne... and he would fall, wanting to take every breath from then on just so he could feel for one more moment the burning of the Arkenstone under his skin.

He tried to stand, to will himself to move away from this place, to leave behind the Mountain and the battlefield; but it felt as if hands were grabbing at him from the earth and holding him down. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing out more tears, then raised his hand to the back of his head and pressed his palm hard against his scalp. His burning hand jerked and his fingernails dug into his skin even past the hood and what was left of his hair, and he felt warmth travel outwards from the wound and down his neck, as if it was bleeding once more.

A shadow passed before his closed eyes; and somewhere in his wavering thoughts, he found himself wondering if a cloud had gone in front of the sun, or if the wind had shifted the smoke from the pyre towards the south. But the shadow grew deeper, and with it came the sound of weapons being moved aside on the ground before him. Then he heard shuffling, and a soft exhaled breath warmed his cheek as fine arms twined around his neck and the faint scent of kingsfoil drifted near.


	15. Bound South

**Chapter Fifteen**

**BOUND SOUTH**

**Fíli's path leads south and west, towards the Forest of Mirkwood; but he may find himself being discovered before he can even make it off the battlefield.**

* * *

Though they had only known one another for a short time, Fíli could tell who was there without needing to look. He recognized her by the way her breath sounded in his ear, by the feel of the fabric of her dress, by the scent she carried on her skin; and so he wrapped his uninjured arm around Sigrid's back and pulled the young Woman near, resting his head on her shoulder without trying to either stop or justify his tears.

Sigrid herself said nothing as he held her close and wept onto the sleeve of her tattered dress - and for that, Fíli was grateful. He did not know what he would say, even if he were capable of speaking at this moment; and as his back continued to heave, she soothed him with a gentle carress on his arm. And so they remained for many long minutes, kneeling in the middle of the battlefield and listening to the not-so-distant sounds of survivors gathering the dead; and though he still heard the warring voices in his mind, after a time his breaths began to slow and his thoughts became more clear.

Finally, he was able to lift his head from her shoulder, though he could not yet bring himself to look into the girl's eyes. "You said you wouldn't follow me," he said, his voice ragged. "That you wouldn't come after me."

"I didn't come after you," she told him softly. "I woke and you were gone, and I just hoped to catch you before you got too far."

"So you could stop me?"

"So I could give you something you forgot."

Sigrid's hold on him loosened, and he sat back and watched on as she reached behind herself and drew out the hand-axe that she had given him earlier - and only then did he realize that he had left it behind in Bard's tent. He reached out so to take the weapon, but he could not find the strength in his hand, and so he instead rested his fingers on her wrist and guided her hand down until the axe was on the dirt beside them.

"Is this where it happened?" she asked, glancing around.

Fíli nodded and took her hand; then his eyes began to well up again and he hung his head. "Why can I only think about how much I am going to miss them?" he asked before he had even thought his words through. "About how... _different_ I am going to be without them? It feels as if I'm grieving for myself... it feels _wrong_..."

"Have you never lost someone?"

"No one so close to me," he said, trying hard now to catch his breath. "I was too young when my father died to understand."

"You do not remember grieving him?"

Fíli shook his head. "The strongest memory I have of him is how _angry_ I was that he'd left us," he confessed. "I thought that was what he did. I didn't know then what _death_ was. For _years_, I thought he was going to come home again. I always thought I would turn around and he would just... _be_ there. He never was."

"It will feel that way now," said Sigrid, then she took a deep breath. "But some morning you'll wake up, and you'll get halfway through the day before you realize that you haven't thought about your uncle or brother since the night before. And that's when you'll know you're getting better, when you're starting to move past it all."

A pain worked its way up the back of Fíli's neck and he stretched it, then he let go of Sigrid and slid his hand under his hood, rubbing the ache. He felt warm wetness under his fingers and his hand froze in place, then he withdrew his touch and folded his shaking hand into a fist, not daring to check if his fingers were coated in blood.

"You're too young to speak such wise words," he said, turning again to Sigrid.

"I'm only repeating things that wiser folk have told me."

"Your father?"

The young Woman nodded. "When my mother died, it felt like part of _me_ died," she said. "I asked my da if I was supposed to feel that way, and he told me that some people really become a part of you, and that you are allowed to miss that part when it is gone. He said that you're allowed to be angry about it, not just sad."

"You could not have been very old then," said Fíli, remembering what Sigrid had said about her mother dying at Tilda's birth. "That is a hard lesson for a child to learn."

"I wasn't a child for long," she said. "I very quickly had to become the _lady_ of the house. I had to cook and clean and sew. I had to keep Bain out of trouble and make sure my father remembered to eat, I had to take care of Tilda..." She stopped, and the corner of her mouth rose as she turned her eyes aside. "I guess I'm becoming more like my mother every day."

He unfolded his hand and studied his reddened fingers for a moment before hastily wiping them off on his trouser leg. "She must have been an amazing Woman, if her daughter is anything to go by," he said; then he bit down on his tongue.

Sigrid sighed and gave him a faint smile; but before she could say anything to Fíli, a shuffling noise rose up behind him. He began to look back, but the girl drew in a quick breath and reached out, lowering his hood further over his face; then she placed her hand on his neck and pulled him close until his cheek was resting on her shoulder.

"Sigrid?" Bard's concerned voice came from nearby. "What are you doing here?"

"What you asked me to do," she said, rubbing Fíli's arm as he tensed up. "Tending to the wounded."

Bard's feet moved to the side, and Fíli pressed his face harder to the girl's neck, grimacing at the renewed pain in his head.

"If he is wounded, he should not be on the field," said Bard; then his tone softened as he spoke to Fíli, himself. "Come along now, friend. It's best you get back to the..."

The Man's strong hand gripped Fíli's shoulder; and when the Dwarf jumped at the unexpected contact, Sigrid's arms wrapped around him tightly and she pulled him to the side.

"This is no place for those who are unwell, Sigrid," said Bard, pulling his hand away. "Why is he not at the Gate?"

"I am bound south, Lord Bard..." said Fíli before he could stop himself; then he gritted his teeth, hoping that his voice was at least rough enough that it might not be recognized.

There was a long pause, then Bard kneeled down and again touched Fíli's shoulder. "Have we met one another, Master Dwarf," he said, "that you are able to call me by my name without the need to see my face?"

Fíli shook his head, not wanting to answer, then he felt Bard's touch slide across his shoulder and to the back of his neck. The Dwarf rose to his feet and turned away; then Sigrid stood, as well, and took hold of his hand.

"Father, please..." she said. "Allow him a moment to grieve. The dead have already been removed from this place, and he will not be in your way."

Bard let out a little sound that might have been him straining to stand, then he neared again to Fíli. "Why is it important that you do your mourning _here_?" the Man asked. "Did you know those that fell on this spot?"

Fíli nodded, but said nothing, and Bard went on.

"The young Dwarves that died in this place were kin to King Thorin..." He fell silent for a few seconds, as if weighing his next words. "And they were friends to my family. But when Lord Balin and I came to gather their bodies this morning, one of them was missing. Would you know what became of him?"

Sigrid squeezed Fíli's hand tighter, and he turned his eyes down until his sight fell on the blackened backsword that he had used the night before. "A warg..." he said, almost to himself; then he spoke just a bit louder. "Maybe a scavenging warg dragged him off..."

"Perhaps," said Bard doubtfully. He stepped closer still and lowered his own voice. "What is your name, friend?"

"Náli," answered Fíli in a whisper, giving the first name that came to mind; then he shut his mouth tight when he remembered that he should not have said anything at all.

"Why are you bound south, Náli?"

Suddenly, Sigrid seemed to have had enough of the questioning. "He is going to see if he can be of some help at the Lake," she lied. "He has had enough of the battlefield, and so long as he is near it, there is little he will be able to do but grieve. So, _please_, let him be on his way to somewhere that he may find himself of use."

Bard let out a long breath, but before he could say anything, another familiar voice drew near.

"Da!" said Bain, panting heavily as he ran up to them. "The Elves are asking for you!"

"What is it?" asked Bard. "What's wrong?"

Bain came to a stop within Fíli's line of sight, and the two of them locked gazes. The boy's eyes widened and his mouth fell open, then he looked to his sister. She shook her head slightly, and Bain closed his mouth and rubbed the back of his neck before speaking again to Bard.

"You need to come," he told him. "They said it's important."

Bard grunted, as if he had heard that several times before. "Go on, then," he said. "Tell them that I will be there in a moment."

Bain focussed on Fíli once more, then he raised his eyebrows at Sigrid before running off; and Bard stepped closer to his daughter.

"Get him off the battlefield," he said to her, touching the Dwarf on the arm. "South or north, it does not matter. Then get yourself back to the camp and have a rest."

His hand left Fíli's arm and his footsteps headed off after his son; and as the Dwarf tilted his head to watch him go, he saw a group of people moving around the field not more than a few hundred feet away. There were still bodies there-though he had not noticed them before, so wrapped up had he been in his own grief-and the survivors were gathering them up and stacking them like lumber on a long, blood-drenched sledge.

Fíli looked back to Sigrid and lowered his face. "Your brother recognized me."

"He will not say anything," she told him.

She stooped and picked up the axe, then slid the handle into Fíli's belt before taking hold of his wrist. She tugged gently on him, and for several seconds his feet felt as if they were stuck in place by the blood beneath them; then he willed them loose and went along to where she was leading - though he could not stop himself from taking one last look back at both the ground where Kíli had died, and the Mountain where he and Thorin now lay.

"How do you know Bain will not tell?" he asked as he turned forward once more.

"Because he hasn't yet," said Sigrid, letting go of his wrist and linking fingers with him. "You were asleep, so you did not see him, but when I returned from searching for Balin and your other kin... after I learned about your brother and uncle, I stopped Bain coming out of our tent. He said that you were supposed to be dead, and that when he went with Da to get your body off the field, you were gone."

_Supposed to be dead..._ "So, then he was the reason you questioned whether or not my kin knew me to be alive?"

"He was going to tell my father that you had been found, but after I told him your wishes, he swore not to say anything until I gave him the word."

"And I take it that word has not been given."

"Not yet."

She pulled him to a halt; and when Fíli looked down he saw at their feet a body so mangled that he could not tell whether it was an Elf or a Man. Sigrid tightened her hold on him, then she gathered her skirt up in her free hand and began walking again, steering them both around the body. There were many more dead beyond, though; and as the pair pressed forward, they kept their eyes on a rise far ahead, daring only to peek down every few steps to be sure that they would not trip over any of the fallen.

"You had no great reason to swear Bain to secrecy before I let you know I was leaving," said Fíli after a few minutes of slow progress.

"Your wishes were reason enough," returned Sigrid. "And he was of help to me, anyway, though he did not understand why you would not want to be found."

"How was he a help?"

"He lit the fire in the tent, and afterwards kept my father away."

Fíli's chest started to ache again, and his temple began to throb. "I should not be making you lie to your father," he said. "There will be trouble for you when he finds out."

"You are not making me do anything," said Sigrid as she let go of his hand and instead linked arms with him. "And I know my father well enough to say that he will understand."

"Will he, really? He owes me nothing that he should be happy that you kept my survival a secret from him."

"He owes you much," she said with a smile. "You saved his children, after all. If not for you and your kin, and Tauriel and... that _other_ Elf, whoever he was, we might well have died when the orcs came to our home... or burned when the dragon came."

Fíli wanted to again bring up the fact that none of that would have happened if the Dwarves hadn't been there in the first place; but instead, he shifted the subject back. "So, Bain will keep his word?"

"He always has. I suppose if I am like our mother, then he is like our father that way. My da may have needed to lie to keep goods running, but if he gives someone his word, he will not fail to keep it."

Sigrid stopped walking once more and cast her eyes down; and when Fíli looked, as well, he saw a great many bodies in their path. They stepped back and turned to the right, making their way around the most of the carnage; then Sigrid took hold of his hand again and lifted her skirt higher as they began to weave their way along the spaces between the dead.

After a few minutes of quiet thought, Fíli let out a shaky breath. "I've been told that I am very much like _my_ father," he said. "But I don't see it. I know I look like him, and that I have the same markings on my skin... but beyond that, I know only what people have told me about him."

"Do you _like_ what people tell you about him?"

"I guess they wouldn't speak ill of the dead, so if there were anything in me that reminded them of him in a bad way, they would not tell me."

"But would you _want_ to know, then? Would you want to hear it, even if it _were_ true?"

"I suppose I wouldn't," he admitted. "But that does not mean those failings are not there."

They fell silent again as they walked on for a while longer, never once either letting go of one another or focussing anywhere but ahead; and at length, they came to a place where there were fewer bodies, less blood, and only a smattering of armor and weapons. Still, they did not stop until they found themselves at the bottom of the rise they had been keeping their sights on for most of their walk; and there, at last, they halted and looked back at the battlefield.

"Is this as far as you're going, then?" asked Fíli, noticing that her grip on him was tightening.

"My da says it's bad luck to watch someone go off into the distance," she told him. "He says that if you do, then you may never see them again. And I think that I would very much like to see you again."

He turned his eyes aside. "But you will not again try to convince me to stay?"

"Would it do any good?" she asked. "It seems that nothing in this world could hold you here."

Fíli shook his head, knowing full well that the _Arkenstone_ would hold him there, if he were willing to let it. "You know why I must go."

"I know what you _told_ me," she said, tilting her chin up. "But there _must_ be something else. You love and miss your brother and uncle too much to leave before their funeral just so you can save a few days in a journey that will take months."

He tightened his jaw, and his throat began to burn. "Ask Balin about..." He stopped and breathed out hard, trying to cool his lungs; then he let go of her hand and brushed a lock of hair off her cheek. "Whatever you tell anyone else is no matter, but tell Balin _everything_ that happened. Do not lie to him, do not try to... _protect_ me by being soft in your words to him. Mention to him the nursery, and he will know why I left. Tell him that he and I were right. Tell him that it _needs_ to be buried with Thorin, that _nobody_ must touch it."

"_What_ needs...?"

"_He_ will tell you," Fíli interrupted, then he realized that his fingers were still on her cheek and he lowered his hand to her shoulder. "Tell him I wanted you to know."

Sigrid's tired eyes darted back and forth. "I do not know why you will not tell me, yourself."

"Because I am afraid of what you will think of me after you hear it," he said, to his own surprise. "And I beg you, Sigrid... please, do not ask me more."

For a moment, she seemed to be trying to force a smile, but when it failed she instead leaned close and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. His eyes widened and he pulled his head back at the gesture; then he gave her a crooked smile of his own when he saw that her cheeks were flushed. He moved his hand to the back of her head and pulled her forward, closing his eyes as he placed his brow to hers.

"We don't know one another very well," he said, "but I am going to miss you."

"Then get to missing me already," said Sigrid. "And go, while you still have the light."

She seemed to be trying to speak with humor, but her voice was shaking; and when Fíli stepped back, he saw that her eyes were welling up. Her face reddened more and she turned away, then they grasped each other's hands for another moment before letting go.

He then began trudging up the ridge, not daring to turn back to see if she was watching, nor looking anywhere but towards the ground at his feet until he got to the top of the hill; and even then, he simply glanced at the horizon before he started down the southern slope. At the bottom, there was a slight flattening before another, higher rise began; and without stopping to either gather his strength or catch his breath, he set about making his way up.

A shadow passed overhead while Fíli was still only halfway to the top, and he turned his face to the sky and saw there a great gathering of large black birds crossing towards the northeast. He drew his cloak low over his eyes, almost fearing that these were ravens that might bring word of him to his kin before he was ready; and when they wheeled about and swept low, at least part of his fears were confirmed as he heard a chattering of raven-croaks.

The occurrence was almost disquieting, as Fíli had never before seen ravens in such a large congregation; and, in fact, only a few times had he seen more than two of the birds together. But while those groups had consisted of no more than ten birds, this flock seemed to have no fewer than a hundred, and he wondered if one strong-willed raven had gone about and gathered its scattered kin after the death of the dragon, and had urged them to return to Erebor in order to renew their friendship with the Dwarves that now lived there.

As Fíli stared on, several of the birds broke off from the group and alighted on the top of the ridge. He stopped his ascent, watching them warily as they strutted about, lifted their heads, then rose again into the air and rejoined their flock as it made its way east and north - a course that would take them over the battlefield and to Erebor. He followed their progress as they went over the rise behind him, then he resumed walking up the hill, wanting now to get as far as he could before yet more prying eyes could find him.

With every step he took, though, his feet slowed and his back ached a little more. Already, the pack on his shoulders was growing heavy and his head was beginning to swim; and when he reached the top of the ridge, he lifted his hand to his brow and shaded his face from the sun. Squinting, he saw the undulating land that stretched out south and west; and beyond it, the dark ribbon of the Forest River where it flowed into Mirkwood. Between where he now stood and the Lake, there seemed to be much more rugged terrain than he remembered; and he could make out many boulder fields and stands of long-dead trees which he did not recall passing the first time through.

Still, if he continued on his course, he knew he would soon see the debris-strewn waters of Long Lake lapping at the shore; then he would see people as small black specks stooping on the sand, milling about, gathering all they could, salvaging the last bits of their lives that had neither been burned by the dragon nor swallowed by the Lake. Other people he would see also, laid out on the ground as if sleeping, but with their faces covered by whatever cloths the survivors had managed to find along the littered shore. Already Fíli thought he could smell the smoke from the smoldering remains of Esgaroth - so different a smell was it from that of the burning bodies he had left behind.

Fíli looked down the hill and began to walk on; but in the space of a few steps, the sun seemed as if it had already begun to lower in the sky. He thought then that the evening must be coming on, though it should have still been hours away, and he felt the desperate want not to spend another night out in the cold. A fire would be of great use in fighting the coming chill, but there was a strong breeze on the slope of the ridge and no fuel thereabouts to gather. At the bottom, he knew, there would at least be some shelter from the wind, even if there were no branches to burn.

And so he straightened his aching back and hoisted the pack higher on his shoulders, then his feet began to speed up as the hill grew steeper. Leaning back, he dug his heels into the ground to keep himself from tumbling; but the impact jarred him, and a sting began to work its way up his neck and into the back of his head, then the bruise over his spine began to throb as the pack pressed harder against it.

Warmth began spreading swiftly up from the wound on the back of his head, across his scalp, and into his brow; and Fíli thought then that the black night had suddenly fallen all around him. But when he turned his face up he still saw light in the sky, and as he glanced towards the sun, it seemed for a moment to flare brighter. He shook his head hard against the glare, and his eyes blurred and he closed them as he leaned forward. At once, he remembered that he was still on a downhill slope and lurched back; but his attempt to right himself came to nothing, as his legs failed under him and he felt himself beginning to fall.

But where he should have landed on his knees and rolled down the sandy incline, he instead found himself lying on his side on flat, hard ground. He took in a long, painful breath, then opened his eyes and looked into the softly glowing embers of a long-dying fire before shifting his sight up and seeing the darkness of deep night all around him.

He was cold and shirtless, and though his back and arm and head hurt a little less now than they had before he had fallen, there was a burning on his midsection where his left elbow rested against his bare skin. He pushed himself up to sitting, clutching at his side as the burning changed to tearing, and after a few labored breaths, he bit down hard and dared to pull his hand away; then he gasped, as in the dim light he could just make out on his palm a coating of blood, borne from a fresh gash just below his ribs.


	16. Blood On The Trail

**Chapter Sixteen**

**BLOOD ON THE ****TRAIL**

**The miles between Erebor and where Fíli now finds himself cannot be recalled; and though his wounds from the Battle are healing, it is the fresh one on his side tha****t is of his greatest concern.**

* * *

Fíli gritted his teeth and shuddered against the cold, holding his palm to the new injury on his side as his eyes scanned the darkness all around him. Beyond the small circle of dim light that the guttering fire was giving off, he could see nothing; but he felt closed-in, contained, surrounded on all sides. And everything was completely silent.

It did not, in fact, feel like he was outdoors at all, and so he pressed his left arm to his wound and reached out with his right hand, expecting his touch to land upon a wall or the rough surface of a cave interior. But his fingers met only air, and a soft breeze blew across the bristling hairs on his arm, deepening the chill. The light wind brought with it an earthy, musty smell that was at once familiar and strange to him; and he lowered his hand to the ground, drawing it over the darkened dirt and scattered leaves between himself and the fire circle, then he cautiously brushed away the layer of earth that covered the shaped road-stones underneath.

Memories came rushing back in the time it took him to draw a painful breath; but these were not the near-memories that he'd been hoping for. They were more distant recollections - nights full of uncertainty, hours of boredom, unexpected moments of anger, and inexplicable stretches of disorientation.

_Mirkwood._

Still, though he now knew where he was, he could not fathom how he had gotten under the Forest's boughs without remembering anything beyond his falling on the ridge between the battlefield and Long Lake. Days, at least, must have passed since then; and if this was the southern part of the Forest, as he had planned on making for, then a week or more lay empty behind him.

His stomach churned, though whether it was from hunger or fear or had some other cause, he could not tell; and so he did the best he could to force the feeling down, then he looked towards the nearly-dead fire. His pack sat open beside it, its contents spilling out over his now-bloody shirt where it lay on the ground. He lifted his eyes and squinted into the gloom beside the fire-pit, seeing then that his bedroll was laid out there and that his cloak was spread atop it. Just next to them on the ground there were a number of small bones, blackened at the ends and picked clean of any meat that had once been clinging to them. The sling that Sigrid had made for him was on the dirt, as well, though the last he remembered it had been cradling his wounded elbow.

Flexing his left arm a few times, Fíli noted that it seemed to have a bit more movement in it than when last he'd checked, though it was still weak and there was a burning just under the skin. He craned his neck to look at the wound Kíli's arrow had left behind, then he felt around it. It seemed, at least, that the swelling was much lessened and that the stitches had been well-tended; and there was little pain there, as well, so that when he pressed his fingertip against the stitches, his skin felt almost numb.

Now, though, was not the time to dwell on his old injuries, even if he did not remember them as being quite so old, after all. The bleeding cut on his side was a more immediate concern, as was whoever-or _whatever_-had caused it. The wound was not very deep, but it was fairly long and had been bleeding heavier not too long ago; and from the way the blood had stained his belly and the ground below him, he could tell that he had been lying on his side before it had slowed.

Fíli touched the slice gingerly, then examined his fingertips. There looked to be dirt in the blood, and when he rubbed his fingers together he felt a grittiness. A moment later, there rose up a familiar, pleasant scent, and it brought to mind the calm and soothing face of Sigrid sitting beside him in her father's tent; and only after giving her memory a soft smile did he recognize the scent as being kingsfoil. Turning again to the side, he saw that the sachet the girl had given him was lying open near to where his head had been resting, and he realized then that he must have put some of the dried herb over his wound in the hopes staunching the bleeding.

That did nothing to tell him where the gash had come from, however; though it occurred to him that it may have been accidental and of his own making, as it was very near to where the head of his hand-axe would have been if he had been carrying it in his belt. He looked around his small campsite, searching for the weapon so that he might find blood on it to bear out the theory, but it was nowhere to be seen within the small distance that he could make out clearly. In an anxious and uncertain moment, he reached down to the sheath on his leg, intent on drawing out his hunting blade; but the knife was also missing.

His hand curled into a tight fist and he tensed his jaw. Being alone and in the darkness of Mirkwood was a bad enough situation, but it was worse still to be bleeding and weaponless, and knowing that there was something out there that had already tried to kill him. His breaths started to quicken and his heart began to race, and he glanced at his pack again and saw the familiar shape of the shears he had taken from the tent. Grabbing them, he held the cold metal handle tight in his shaking grip - his only defense against whatever might be out there watching him right now.

For an instant, he considered yelling out into the nighttime for his attacker to show itself, and he even went so far as to take in a deep breath for the shout; but the urge to issue a challenge passed quickly when he realized that whatever had injured him was likely no longer nearby. Unconscious and helpless as he had been, he would probably not have survived the night if the stranger hadn't already been either long gone or dead.

The Dwarf's nerves calmed somewhat and he lowered the shears to his lap, then he held his hands out to what was left of the fire in an attempt to chase away the chill that was traveling through him; though his eyes still flitted about, searching for anything that might come at him out of the the pitch blackness. He turned his face up again, then looked to the side and saw that in the far distance there was a faint brightening, and he could just make out the suggestions of tree-shadows against the sky. East, then, must lay in that direction; and the sun was on the rise beyond the edge of the Forest.

As best as he could figure, he was no more than a day's march inside the Wood. That much he could gather from the rising sun and the soft breeze, neither of which he believed he would he be aware of were he not relatively near to the trailhead. The small bones by the bedroll also bore that out, as the last time he had been through Mirkwood, the only living things he had encountered were ones he would certainly not have wanted to make any kind of meal of. He must have killed a squirrel or rabbit or some other such thing outside the Forest, he thought, and brought it in with him, wanting to eat it as soon as possible before it had a chance to rot.

So, he had likely hiked into the Wood for a day, and had gotten only so far as he now was before the evening stole the light; then he had settled in for a fire and a meal, and afterwards had tried to sleep. He had managed the first two, it seemed, without trouble, but his rest had been cut short by whatever had cut him. Sleep mattered little to him now, though, as the shock of his waking had sent a burst of nervous energy through his system; and in its ebb he felt himself growing colder.

The embers had done little to warm him, and so he drew his tunic out from under the disturbed contents of his pack, then examined the long, bloody tear on the fabric. He looked at his wounded side again, deciding that he would not waste the small amount of thread he had on-hand to try to stitch either the shallow cut or the torn cloth. And so he slipped the damaged tunic on, then grabbed his cloak and threw it over his shoulders. He fastened it under his chin and lifted the hood over his shortened hair, and at last he felt the cold begin to fade from his limbs.

Regardless of his injured and confused state, he did not want to linger here on this spot on the chance that his attacker might return. He tied the kingsfoil sachet closed, then shoved it and the rest of his scant belongings into his pack; though the shears he kept out, feeling that in the absence of any other weapon, they would serve him better than none.

Rooting then through his food-sack, he saw that there was not more missing than he would have eaten in a few days if he had been careful about rationing it; so he allowed himself a small bite of cram, though it did little to ease the gnawing in his gut and made him thirsty to the point where he could not help but take a sip from one of his water-skins.

After his small breakfast, he rolled his bedding and tied it to his pack along with his food-pack and drink-skins, then he slung it over his shoulders. By now, the area around him had lightened a bit more with the rising dawn, and he was at least able to see the gnarled trees on either side of the trail, though his eyes still could not pierce the darkness between the trunks. He drew in a deep breath and stretched, then winced at the pain in his side before kicking out out the cinders of his campfire and sliding the shears into his belt.

Before setting out, though, he thought to again look on the ground all around him for his axe and knife. He did not find them, though not far behind where he had been lying, there was a length of coiled rope. He picked it up and turned it over, trying to recall when and where he had gotten it, but the best he could figure was that he had found it along the road, and had thought it might one day be of some use. He draped it over his shoulder, then squinted down again and saw darkened drops on the dirt.

That was his own blood, he knew, trailing from wherever he had been when he had been attacked. He stared hard at the spots, then set off following them westwards along the Forest path. After about thirty feet, the blood-trail ended, and he halted and saw there also a thick branch with a burnt cloth wrapped around one end. The torch, he somehow knew, was of his own making; and in some distant, dim corner of his mind, there flashed a memory of it falling from his grip and going out instantly. He heard an echoing sound in his mind-a scream or screech-then the memories shifted back into a fog.

He struggled to remember more as his eyes tried to search between the trees on either side of him, though the darkness beyond the nearest trunks seemed complete. For whatever reason, he had come this way with the torch after setting up his camp and eating his dinner; and it was on this spot that he had been attacked - though by _what_, he still couldn't say. There were no other indications on the trail, and so he crouched down and studied the softer dirt at the edge of the path; and although there was nothing to see to the south, on the northern edge he saw tracks.

They were animal tracks, certainly, and in the still-dim but waxing light, they looked to be those of a heavy goat or ram. They seemed to work along the ground amidst a small break in the trees, but they did not come onto the trail itself, and they appeared to have come first from the east, where his camp had been set up.

Fíli ran his hand along the rope he had over his shoulder. There was a chance, at least, that he had come across a riderless war-goat on his trek from the Mountain, and that he had taken it as a mount in the hopes of shortening his journey. Those goats that had been bred and raised by Dwarves tended to accept any of them as riders without hesitation, and it was possible that he had befriended it quickly. That _would_ explain, he thought, why he had managed to have come so far, to Southern Mirkwood, in what seemed like a very short time.

Where the animal was now, however, there was no way to tell. It may have wandered off into the Wood in the dark of night, and he figured he might have gone off in search of it when he'd discovered it missing - but he would have known better than to leave the trail, and had likely stopped on this spot where he saw its prints. Had he called out to it? And what had then happened? Had he frightened it to the point where it had attacked him? War-goats sometimes had blades strapped to their horns, and a quick swipe of the beast's head would have been enough to cut him open.

He pursed his lips and shook his head. It was unlikely a Dwarvish goat would attack its rider, even in the overbearing atmosphere of Mirkwood. And still, that left the question of where his axe and knife had gone, as he may well have defended himself against the animal with one weapon, though not with both.

The air around began to lighten further as he wondered, and soon Fíli found that he could see a little deeper into the thick trees before him - and a bit further in, he caught sight of something metal on the ground. He dared to step towards it, and as he drew near, he realized that it was the square-pommelled hilt of a short-sword that was peeking out from behind the trunk of a tree. He stooped and lifted the weapon, noting both that it was of Dwarven-make and that its edge was reddened; then he gripped the handle tightly, wondering if this had been another thing he had found along the road, but had dropped here in his confusion and pain.

The leaves on the ground near to where the weapon had been resting seemed in spots to be darker than those around them, and he stood and stared at them for a few breaths before nudging at them with his toe. The leaves stuck fast to his boot, and he knew then that what he was seeing was the blood of either a goblin or warg or some other foul creature - one that had likely escaped into the darkness of the Forest after the Battle had turned against it.

Fíli heard what he thought might have been a faint and far-off rustling, and he held the sword up and spun around, preparing to defend himself; but as he did, his memories began to try breaking through the haze and he froze in place. He did not remember leaving the fire, did not remember following his mount or calling out to it; but he did remember standing on the trail, holding the torch high in his left hand and wielding his hunting knife in the right. His axe, though? Where had it been? Why would he not have used it, rather than the smaller blade?

He narrowed his eyes and tried to think back again, tried to remember what had become of the larger weapon - but instead, he recalled hearing the campfire crackle, then turning quickly back around towards it. He had then felt something hit his side. The torch fell and darkness rushed in, and he pulled the knife up into the air, then slashed down. There was a shriek, the weapon was pulled from his hand... and he ran, holding his palm to his fresh wound, towards the flickering fire.

There had been screeching and foul foreign words behind him, then came what he thought might have been the sound of a hoofed animal running through the Wood - then everything around him had gone suddenly silent. He had waited, listening for a few more seconds; and when he heard nothing else, he'd collapsed by the fire and pulled off his shirt before grabbing his pack and spilling out the contents as he sought for something to stop his bleeding.

He had just been fumbling with the kingsfoil when he'd heard a shuffling sound off to the side, and when he had turned that way there had been a flash of light. Then there was nothing.

The breath caught in Fíli's throat and he lifted his hand to his head, feeling around for some fresh gash or lump to show where an unexpected strike might have caused the light and dashed away his memories; but he found nothing new on his scalp, and even the wound that Azog had given him seemed to be almost healed-over.

Still, whatever had happened in that last memory, he knew now that it had been a goblin that had attacked him - the echoing of the creature's shrieks and its evil language told him as much. He looked around him, searching for some sign of the creature; and it was not long before he saw it, sitting with its back against the trunk of a fallen oak some distance to his right. Its grey head was flopped over to the side and thick black blood dripped from the corner of its slack-open mouth, and Fíli's knife was dug up to the guard just below the goblin's right collar bone.

It was clearly dead, and had been for a while; though when Fíli laid eyes on it, a hatred rose up in him and he ran forward and thrust the Dwarf-sword against the back of its extended neck. The weapon slid through flesh and bone so cleanly that the goblin's body remained sitting in place, though its head fell to the ground and rolled down a slight slope before coming to rest against the trunk of a nearby tree. But still, Fíli did not stop his attack. He swung at the goblin's shoulder, severing its arm and sending the limp body to the ground; then he spun the sword in his grip and thrust it down. The metal dug into the creature's stomach, and he pulled it out, then stabbed down again, pushing the sword clean through the mangled body and digging the tip of the blade into the ground.

Breathing heavily, Fíli set his booted foot on the goblin's chest and pulled the sword free, then he reached down with his other hand and ripped his dagger out of its chest. He stepped back and studied the dreadful sight with satisfaction; but that satisfaction quickly faded, to be replaced by a wave of disgust. He dropped both weapons to the ground and backed away; then his stomach started to turn and his thoughts grew light, and his hands found their way to the sides of his head as he fell to his knees.

The weight of his pack pulled him over and he landed on his side; and for several seconds he stared hard at the creature, watching its congealed blood flowing slowly from its severed neck. He closed his eyes for what he thought was only a moment, but when he looked again, he saw that there was now more light all around him. He turned his eyes up, and was surprised to see bits of blue through the tangle of winter-bare branches - further proof that he had not yet gone very deep into the Wood.

Gathering his strength, he rolled to his knees, then he looked back at what was left of the goblin. There was not yet the will in him to stand, so he instead crawled over to the headless corpse and picked up the weapons he had dropped. He ran both blades across the goblin's leather tunic, wiping away the black blood, then he slid his knife into the sheath on his boot before reaching down and loosening the belt that held the scabbard for the Dwarven blade to the creature's body. He was determined, at least, not to allow one of his peoples' weapons to remain with a goblin, even in death; and so he pulled himself higher onto his knees, then fastened the scabbard belt around his own waist before sliding the sword into place.

He stretched his neck and rubbed his sore side, then he drew himself at last onto his feet and adjusted the shears on his belt. Thinking there might be something else there that could be of use to him, he looked around, but he found nothing. His sight, though, fell on the goblin's head - and in the new light, there seemed something odd about it. He squinted in concentration, then crept slowly in that direction.

Once there, he drew out his newly-acquired sword and crouched, then he slid the blade under the head and flipped it over, wrinkling his nose disgustedly at the wretched face. The goblin was as foul as any other he had ever seen, but it looked more damaged up-close than he had at first thought. The severing of its neck had been clean enough, but the front left side of the creature's skull had been bashed in by some brutal blow.

Fíli knew it had not been his hand that had done that, as he had rushed to the fire after stabbing the creature, and had fallen unconscious soon afterwards; but the injury was not one that even a goblin could have lived through, and so it must have been the last strike the goblin had taken before it had died. He stared harder at the wound, then he smiled crookedly as he realized it had likely been the goat that had dealt the killing blow.

Since the animal was not still around, though, in its fright it had probably run off into the deep darkness of the Forest evening. The loss was unfortunate, as a mount would have been of great use to Fíli along the road - and if his axe had been stowed in the animal's saddle, then it was as long-lost as the goat, itself. That left him no other course than to carry on without either, and so he stood and returned the sword to its sheath before turning back around towards the trail.

His feet slipped and stumbled over the leaf-covered roots and fallen branches as he made his way out of the trees, but when he reached the path he stopped suddenly and looked back over to where the dead goblin lay. Past his heavy breaths, he thought that he had heard something moving amidst the dry leaves, and for many long seconds he stood fast, not daring to move as he listened anxiously; but the sound, whatever it had been, was gone, and no other noises rose up.

For a fleeting moment, he considered turning back east, towards the nearer edge of the Forest and greater safety - but though days had gone by, and the tingling that the Arkenstone had left in his fingers had subsided, he still feared closing the gap between himself and the King's Jewel. And so he set his mind again on heading west, and after glancing up at the glowering trees above him, he grasped the hilt of his sword and turned swiftly to the right, making his way along the trail that would take him deeper into Mirkwood.


	17. Worse Fates

**Chapter Seventeen**

**WORSE FATES**

**Days have passed since Fíli woke in the darkness of Mirkwood, and in that time he has been beset by strange dreams and a desperate loneliness that seems to be seeping like sap out of the trees around him.**

* * *

_The last thing Fíli remembered, he was sitting in the pitch blackness of the Forest night, fighting sleep as he watched his campfire burn low; but now he found himself lying on his back and looking up at the sky as giant eagles wheeled and dashed above him. __Before long, the great birds faded into the clouds, and the world sank into silence and stillness; and Fíli_ _sat up and glanced around the battlefield. _

_There were no bodies there now, no weapons, no cast-off pieces of armor. The blood that had covered the ground was gone, and in the still air there was no smoke from the pyres on which the dead should still be burning. He was utterly alone; and as he stared quietly towards the Lonely Mountain, he wondered how long he had been there, and why nobody had yet come to bring him back to the Gate.  
_

_"Does he live?"_

_Fíli knew that voice, though not too well, and he turned expecting to see Legolas close-at-hand. But he saw instead the Elvenking, and behind him stood Tauriel with her head bowed and her hands folded in front of her._

_"Yes," she answered simply._

_Thranduil nodded, then lowered himself to his knees in front of Fíli and stared deep into his eyes._ _"How is it that you are not dead?" he asked the Dwarf._

_Fíli ran his hands over his body, feeling for the wounds he remembered taking. The slice on his arm, his aching elbow, the bruise over his spine, the hole at the back of his scalp - all of his injuries were gone, save for the cut on his side; and he knew that would be closed in good time._

_"I've healed," he said with a shrug; then he turned his eyes to Tauriel, who had not moved. "Where have you been?"_

_She did not answer, though; and a moment later, Fíli felt something being pressed against his palm. He looked down to see the Arkenstone in his hand, and his mouth fell open as he shuddered._

_"I do not want this," he lied, fighting the urge to close his hand around the Stone._

_"Does it mean nothing to you?" asked Thranduil._

_"Nothing..."_

_"It was a gift, given in good faith. Why would you turn it away?"_

_Fíli's eyes followed the wisps of smoky blue light as they issued from the Arkenstone, then he shook his head. __"There is no _good_ in this gift..." he said, forcing himself to look up at the Elf. "It was a mistake that it was given to me."_

_Thranduil glared at him, then snatched the King's Jewel out of his shaking hand. "What, then, would you have me do with it?"_

_"Take it back to the Mountain," said Fíli, closing his eyes and curling his tingling fingers into a fist. "Bury it, burn it... keep it, if you wish. I don't care._ _I do not want to see it again."_

...

The passage of time was difficult to figure in the darkness of the Forest, but Fíli felt that it must have been at least four days since he had awoken after his wounding by the goblin. This day's march would soon be nearing its end, as well - or so he gathered from the aching in his back and the gnawing in his stomach. The last few hours he had spent slowly picking his way along, shoving aside the fallen leaves as he went so he would not wander off the track; but now he was beginning to wonder if he should stop for a bite to eat, or if he could go on for just a little while longer.

Over the last few days, he had eaten little enough to that he was always hungry, but never starved; and he had sipped only sparingly at his water-skins, so that he was perpetually thirsty. In this way, he had managed to save much of the food in his sack, but every time he looked inside he felt like there was already too much missing. He feared that the end of his journey through the Forest would come many days after the last of his food and drink was gone, and that he might waste away or die of thirst before he again saw the blue sky above him.

He had seen no sign of his goat mount; and after two sleeps, he had given up on listening for the sound of its hooves or seeking out its prints in the soft soil by the path. In all likelihood, if it had not gotten lost in the Forest, then it had turned and headed back the way it had come. It was probably by now all the way back to Erebor, or it might even have set its course towards the Iron Hills, with the hand-axe still stowed securely in its saddle. In any case, Fíli knew that he would not be seeing it again; though he reminded himself that he did not actually remember seeing it at all.

It was not a comforting thought. Mirkwood was a grim and cheerless place even at the best of times; but trudging through on foot-alone and wounded, and with only an empty stomach and lingering grief for company-made for a slow and miserable passage. But still he pressed on, the rumbling of his stomach and his boots scraping along the road-stones the only sounds breaking the silence; and in that silence, his thoughts slid time and again back to the Mountain, and those people and things he had left behind.

Sometimes those recollections dug too deep, and after a while he would notice that he had gone on for quite some time without any aim; and so he occasionally stopped in mid-thought and sat on the path as he tried to clear his mind enough that he might be able to go on without wandering off the trail. So far, he had not lost the Road for more than a few minutes, but his going seemed far too slow, to the point where he felt that if he looked back over his shoulder he would still be able to see the remains of his campfire from the night before.

He set up his evening camp whenever it got too dark for him to walk on without seeing the ground beneath him, but any sleep that he managed was invariably shortened by disturbing dreams. He would often wake abruptly to find the night still all around him; then he would fall back to sleep and dream again, and _again_ the dreams would wake him. Usually, it was the images of the Battle and the burning of Laketown that roused him; but though other dreams were more calm, they were no less disturbing.

In those, he could see nothing, but heard familiar voices all around him, speaking as if it were just another day. When that had first happened, he'd thought that he had been found, and that the happy exclamations he heard from Balin and Ori and Bofur were real - until he realized that Thorin and Kili's voices had joined in. Fíli had then woken with tears on his face, and the rest of that night he had spent staring intently towards the darkened trees, as if they had been the ones that had been speaking to him.

The dream from this morning, however, had been different; not for the presence of the Arkenstone, which he had seen often in both his sleep and his walking daydreams, but in that it involved a person that he knew little enough to count as not at all. Aside from seeing Thrandul from afar on the lakeside and at the Gate, the only time Fíli had come into contact with the him had been in the Battle; and besides hearing his muffled voice through the canvas of a tent, it had also been the only time that he had heard him speak.

Tauriel's presence in his dream had not been as much of a mystery, at least, since Fíli had really begun to think of her as a friend by the time the Battle had forced that friendship to a premature end - and he had actually found himself more than once wondering if she had survived to the end of it.

It seemed, anyway, that the odd dreams were one of the few effects of Mirkwood on Fíli's mind, though the first time he had gone along one of the Forest paths, the whole situation had been much more unstable. He remembered being nervous back then, and frightened and angry and anxious all at once. He had seen and heard things that were not there, and he had wanted to strike out at anyone who might have given him or his brother a glance that seemed hostile in the slightest.

He felt none of that now; but what he did feel was loneliness and sadness and grief - and it seemed that not all of it was from his own mind, but was pressing in on him from the trees that glowered down at him from all sides. The tall elms and oaks and birches really did seem to have lives and feelings and thoughts of their own, and he felt that he wouldn't have been surprised if they had suddenly chosen to strike up a conversation as he went along, so to fend off their own despair.

At times, when the sense of loss was the strongest, they even looked almost to be hanging their limbs lower and lower; and he found that he was able to reach up and let his fingertips brush along the bare branches and trailing vines. When he dared to do so, however, they seemed to pull back a little from his touch, and he took to ducking under them instead of pushing them out of his way when he came to any that were low across the path.

That aside, the Forest felt far less enchanted and less foreboding to Fíli than it had on his first trip through; but he could not say whether that was because most of the Elves were away, because he was on the Old Forest Road instead of the Elven Path, because he was not accompanied by a large group of strangers to this land, or for some other unfathomable reason. Still, it felt like eyes were following him along from the gaps between the thick trunks, and so he usually kept his gaze on his feet and continued on in silence.

Fíli scratched thoughtlessly at the healing cut on his side, then winced at the irritation of his fingernails scraping over it. His other injuries were much improved, at least. The bruise he'd gotten on his back did not hurt much anymore, but once in a while he would feel a twinge in his spine that he had to stop and breathe through before going on. His weakened left arm was also in a far better state than it had been, and he felt that soon he would remove the stitches that Sigrid had given him, as the cut was by now very much closed.

Even the wound on the back of his head seemed to be giving him little trouble since his encounter with the goblin near the trailhead, though he was far from certain if that was a good thing. He had seen many head injuries over the years-Bifur's not being the least of them-and they always had some lasting effect. But then, he thought, maybe he did not notice that _effect_ because it was he himself who had the injury - maybe someone else would see easier how he had changed. _If_ he had changed.

_The thing about madness,_ he thought, repeating Balin's words to himself, _is that, if you are truly mad, you don't know it._

Fíli bit down on his dry tongue. It could be, he told himself, that he _was_ a much different person than he'd been before the injury; but who was here in the Forest to tell him as much? Still, he was thankful that things had not ended worse for him. He might have, after all, been laid to rest, awake and aware, under some great slab of stone - there to be left to suffocate or starve, or to revive and claw at the rock, desperate to escape.

He remembered clinging to Kíli in fear one night many years ago, when Óin had told them about how he had once attended the funeral for his friend's uncle after a mining accident. The miner was to be laid in the burial chamber of his father, who had succumbed to a fever years before; but when the chamber was opened to allow for the interment, they found the patriarch's dusty, petrified remains lying crumpled on the floor just inside the great door. It turned out that the old Dwarf had woken at some point after his burial, and though he had managed to somehow force the cover off of his tomb, he had not been able to escape the chamber, itself.

Fíli also recalled another such story, though this one had been overheard rather than told to him. He had been just a child at the time, and was prone to sneaking out of bed at night to snack when everyone else was asleep. One evening, when he had reached the kitchen, he'd heard his uncle and mother speaking to a guest inside the adjacent dining-room. Their voices were low, but when he drew close to the door he could hear bits of what was being said - and he'd realized with a jolt that they were talking about a Dwarf who had been thought dead, but who had woken up screaming as the flames of a pyre had begun licking at his skin.

At the time, Fíli did not know what a _pyre_ was, and in his young mind he had concocted the image of someone falling asleep while working, then tumbling into a forge. It was only years later that he had found out that the burned Dwarf had been a soldier at Azanulbizar; and it had been many years later still before he had heard the whole story. Learning all of the details, though, had only served to make the terror of the whispered tale even more keen, and for a long time he could not look at a fire without picturing a twisted and bloody face being consumed by the flames, or hearing a shrill voice crying out for release.

Those stories still haunted Fíli more than any other tales he had heard as a child, and he shuddered now as he recalled them; though he wondered why they had not come to mind when he had been facing the possibility of his own burial, or when he had been watching the casualties burning on the field between Dale and Erebor.

But now he found himself fearing that some of the people who had been placed on the pyre after the Battle had not yet been dead. He wondered if any had woken up screaming, or if they had not even gotten a chance to make a sound before the fire and smoke stole the breath from their lungs. Had some of them been caught up in the same paralysis that had held Fíli himself tight? Had they felt themselves being lifted, stripped in the cold air, then thrown into the flames? Had they been unable to tell anyone that they were still breathing, that their hearts were still beating, that they could feel themselves being burned alive?

A sting cut through Fíli's head and his stomach began to churn as he remembered that such a fate had come to many of the people of Laketown when Smaug attacked not so long ago. They had screamed for help, had cried out for only a moment before their skin charred and cracked; they had been terrified, not only for themselves, but for their children, their parents, their friends...

Fíli stopped walking, suddenly aware that the sound of his boots on the ground had changed. He turned his face down and saw that the trail was no longer below him, and an ache worked its way into his chest when he realized that his feet had been wandering as his mind had been drifting. He lifted his eyes, but there was nothing ahead save a deep darkness that not even his strong Dwarf eyes could cut through; and so he turned on his heel and looked back the way he had come.

There was a long, straight gap through the trees; but the thick layer of leaves on the ground had prevented any prints his heavy boots may otherwise have left behind. Still, his best guess was that the trail lay in that direction, and he set off again, walking slowly and paying rapt attention to everything around him, in the hopes that he would not miss the path when he came to it.

Regardless of his new diligence, after a few minutes he began to feel as if he had gone the wrong way. The light was by now beginning to fail, and the cold of the Forest night was setting in. He did not stop walking, though; did not stop focussing on the ground as he shuffled along, kicking aside the browned leaves in the hopes that he would find the road-stones beneath them.

But there was little enough light in Mirkwood at all times, and the winter days were getting shorter so the night fell swiftly, and before long he could no longer see his boots or the leaves, or even his own hand in front of his face. He could not go on looking for the Road tonight, and he hoped only that he would at least have some better clue as to where he was in the morning. Right now, though, there was a deep pain in his stomach, and he knew that he had no choice but to set a fire, and maybe to have a meal - or the dim suggestion of a meal.

He flexed his fingers, grimacing at the sting and stiffness the chill of oncoming evening had forced into them, then he sat hard on the ground and leaned his shoulder against the thick trunk of a tree. Reaching out, he cleared the area in front of him as best he could of dry leaves, then gathered some of them into a pile. He dared not move very far from the tree, and so he kept his foot pressed to the trunk as he groped around in the darkness for any fallen branches and sticks that might make for him a decent fire. When the stack was set, he took the rope off his shoulder and set it on the ground, then he began to slide his arms out of the straps of his pack, so to find his flint.

The pack had only been lowered just a bit when a sound nearby drew his attention and froze him in place. He wasn't certain, but it seemed that he had heard the rustling of leaves not very far ahead of where he sat. In any other wood, that would have meant little or nothing to him; but Mirkwood nights were always impossibly quiet, and any sounds that cut through the drowning silence were out of place.

"Hello?" he said softly, though still he cringed at how loud his voice had been. "Is somebody there?"

There was no reply, and he wrapped his hand around the haft of his sword.

_Not an Elf,_ he thought. _They wouldn't let themselves be heard...__  
_

That did not comfort him, and he eased the pack back up onto his shoulders and wrapped his hand tighter around the hilt of his sword. He wasn't sure now if a fire was a good idea, as there was a chance that it might attract whatever was skulking around. On the other hand, it was likely that anything that lived in this place would have eyes that could pierce the darkness, fire or no - and the flames might even serve as a deterrent to any creatures that might come near.

He listened again, and for many long seconds he heard nothing; then the faint sound of snuffling came from off to his right, as if something was sniffing at the ground there. He pulled his sword slowly out of its sheath, cringing as it scraped eerily and loud against the brass locket; then he held his breath and listened to the deep silence once more. Faintly, past the sound of his own heart in his ears, he could just make out quick and raspy breathing, like the panting of some thirsty animal - and he raised his sword and passed it slowly in front of himself.

The tip of the weapon hit the stack of sticks he had set for his fire, knocking them to the ground, and he shrunk back against the tree as his sword-hand began to shake. The sword lowered to his side, almost as if it had chosen to do so on its own, and he heard his knuckles cracking as he tightened his grip on the handle. He let out a deep breath that he didn't even realize he was holding; and when he inhaled again, he became aware that the air in front of him was warmer than it had been a few minutes before.

He held his left hand out and waved it slowly in front of himself, and he felt a hot burst of moist air against his fingers. Jumping to his feet, he pressed his pack to the tree and swung his sword down hard. The blade met nothing, and he heard at once the sound of scraping behind him.

Spinning about, he backed away from the tree; but he stumbled over his firewood and fell hard onto the ground. He scrambled away and rose to his knees, again holding his sword out, but besides his own heavy breathing, he could no longer hear anything.

"Where are you?" he asked in a whisper, though his voice still seemed uncannily loud.

At the very least, it seemed that whatever was out there was neither a goblin nor a warg; and the fact of its breath being hot told him that it was not one of the giant spiders that called the Forest home. Regardless, if it had been any of those things, it would not have simply come near, then left without attacking. On thinking harder, Fíli considered that it might well have been a fox or a badger; though if that were the case, then it was a large and unusually bold one.

Still, he told himself, whatever the creature was, it had at least not tried to do him any harm, and the greatest chance was that it had simply been curious about him. That did not make him feel much better about being approached by something that he could not see, however, and he no longer felt so safe about staying here for the evening. But there was nowhere else for him to go in the darkness, and any path he might pick out would probably lead him only deeper into the Forest, and away from the Road.

Fíli's stiffened shoulders relaxed as no other sound rose up for many minutes, and he turned his mind again to needs other than his defense. He was still cold and hungry, despite his fright; and so he laid the sword on the ground, then set about quickly slipping off his pack and drawing out his flint.

Before he could get his kindling set up, though, he heard the sound of scraping once more. It was more distant now, and off to his left, and his eyes flitted in that direction as he rested his hand on his sword. He held his breath, listening attentively as the noise continued; but it was now steadily growing further and further away, until at last it vanished into the distance.

* * *

**NOTE: If you would like to read the story that Óin told to Fíli and Kíli, you can find it in my works under the title _"The Second Death Of Heggi Silvereye"._**


	18. The Visitor

**Chapter Eighteen**

**THE VISITOR**

**Fíli wakes to find the Forest morning darker and more dreary than ever; but though he hopes that it will lighten as he searches for the Road, he instead finds the day growing darker - and soon he learns that he is not alone.**

* * *

Fíli had managed to stay awake for the first few hours after his fright, but eventually the warmth and flickering of the fire had lulled him to sleep. As was usual in this dreadful place, he had not escaped dreaming; though this time those dreams had simply been continuations of his trek, and there had been little unusual or out of place about them - except for the eyes that followed him along from the gaps between the trees. They were yellow eyes, narrowed and intent and close to the ground; and whenever he tried to look directly at them, they would blink out of sight.

When he woke in the morning, there was a strange heaviness in the air, and what little light made it to the Forest floor had a dull and dirty look to it; though he was not certain if that was Mirkwood's doing, or because of his own hazy vision and unsteady mind for lack of food. He hadn't eaten at all before falling to sleep, in fact - both for the fear that the smell from his opened sack would bring back whatever had come to him in the darkness, and because he wanted to make his food last for as long as possible.

But now his gut was gnawing and the center of his forehead was throbbing, and he was dizzy to the point where he could not sit up without tilting to the side; and he felt that he had no choice but to dig into his rations. Still, so to save what little he had left, he ate only a small handful of dried fruit and washed it down with a sip of water; then he brought his knees up to his chest and pressed his palm to his brow. Slowly, the pain in his mind eased and his dizziness faded-though his stomach still ached and groused-and he lifted his head and searched the area with somewhat clearer eyes.

There were no animal tracks on the ground around him, nor was there any other indication that a creature had been there at all - and even the trunk of the largest tree nearby seemed to be untouched, though he was sure that the scraping he'd heard must have been claws against the bark. All that remained of his campfire was ash, and though he'd thought that it had been large enough that it would have burned for many hours, in the dim light he could see that the actual fire-ring was quite small. Everything around him, in fact, seemed closer and smaller than he had imagined the night before, and he wondered wistfully if the trees had neared to him in an effort to stave off their own loneliness.

Although Fíli had lost all concept of what direction he'd been heading in when dusk had fallen, he could still see the wide gap in the trees that he had been walking along the day before - and he was thankful, at least, that he hadn't wandered away from it. Down one end of the alley there was a deeper darkness, and he figured that west must lie in that direction, since the morning light would not have brightened it much there yet; and with no other indication of which way he should go, he decided that was his best bet.

So he heavy-heartedly gathered his belongings and walked on, dragging his feet through the thick layer of dead leaves on the Forest floor in the hopes of bringing the road-stones into view underneath. But he saw no trace of the Road, and the further he went, the darker the air around him grew; and though by an hour into his day's journey the sun should have been high above the Forest, brightening it at least somewhat, he instead came to an area where the shade was deep and the atmosphere was thick. At once, he feared that he had found his way into a bad place, but while his pace slowed, he did not stop walking.

A few more minutes on, he saw something dark on the ground in a clearing ahead of him. He halted, staring hard at the object and wondering if it was some kind of resting animal; but it did not move and no sounds rose up, and so he crept carefully forward. Then he stood fast and pursed his lips when he saw that it was the remains of a campfire that had been burnt down to ash and charred branches, and he had only just managed to wonder who had set it when his heart sank.

The campsite, he knew, was his own - but he had not been walking in circles, as the place where he had woken just an hour or so before was not the same. The fire-ring here was larger, the trees were further away, and on the ground there were clawed tracks like those of a wolf or wild dog overlapping with his own handprints. On the trunk of a large tree nearby, he saw deep gouges; and on the dirt beside it was the mark of where his coiled rope had been placed.

Fíli sat down hard and buried his face in his hands, trying to sift through his memories. How had he had gone to sleep here and woken some distance away? He could not have been sleepwalking last night, because he would not have been able to follow the tree-alley in the darkness.

Did he spend an entire day making his way through the woods, only to forget doing so - as he'd forgotten his trip from the ridge to the trailhead? Was his dream actually a hazy memory of yesterday's walk? And why, if he _had_ spent all of yesterday walking, was this campsite only an hour from the other? Had he traveled further on, then turned back for some reason? Or _had_ he been going in circles, and was he just now coming back around to where he'd begun the day before?

Fíli grimaced as he dug his nails into his scalp, then he let his hands fall to his lap and glared up at the shaded tree-skeletons, cursing them silently. Whatever was going on with his mind, he was sure that the Forest itself was not uninvolved. Perhaps it _was_ as enchanted as before, though it hadn't felt that way at first; perhaps it wanted to toy with him, to play with his thoughts, to lead him astray.

Without warning, something darted between the nearby trees; and though he saw the movement from the corner of his eye and heard the rustling of leaves, it still took him a moment before he realized that he had not imagined it. He stood quickly and drew out his sword, spinning towards where he had seen the movement, but there was nothing there.

Another noise brought his attention around to the right, and when he turned that way he saw a pair of narrowed yellow eyes staring back at him from the darkness between the trunks. They were the same eyes as he remembered from his _dream_; only now, when he looked at them they did not vanish. Instead, they shifted to the side, then widened and seemed to grow soft.

Whatever the creature was, it was not large, and the way it was moving gave it a curious aspect, rather than a malicious one; and so Fíli let out a long breath and lowered his sword, though his grip on the handle did not loosen.

"It's alright," he said, as calmly as he was able. "Come on out..."

The animal slid further back into the shadows, dimming the brightness of its stare, then it stepped ahead again and made its way into the somewhat brighter light beyond the trunks. Now that he could see it clearly, he thought that it might be a cross between a wolf and some type of dog or hound - and it did not seem menacing in the least. It stood only about as tall as Fíli's waist, its ears were softly drooped, its muzzle was small, it was lean almost to the point of being bony, and its matted light-brown fur was mottled on the legs. It really looked rather absurd overall, and the sight actually brought a grin to the Dwarf's face.

"Are you one of those _more dangerous things_ that Sigrid warned me I would find here?" he asked with a touch of grim humor.

The animal stepped haltingly forward, then it stopped and stared at the sword in Fíli's hand. He nodded in understanding, then he slowly slid the weapon back into its scabbard as he looked first at the animal's large paws, then at the matching prints all around the clearing.

"Is this your spot?" he asked; then he cautiously kneeled and held out his left hand in a peaceful gesture. "Sorry about last... about the _other_ night. I thought you were something else. Something _worse_."

The animal padded near and sniffed at his arm; then it whined slightly as its eyes met Fíli's own.

"I don't suppose you've seen a goat around here?" he asked. "Or an axe?"

The wolf tilted its head, and Fíli let out a quick breath and stood, wondering if he had _really_ expected an answer. The animal leaped back at his sudden movement, bristling the fur on its neck; but despite a bit of surprise at its posture, Fíli did not find himself frightened.

"Well... it was nice meeting you, but I need to be going," he told it; then he glanced around. "If I can even find the Road..."

The animal lowered its scruff and started to pant excitedly, then it turned to the side and scraped its claws on the large oak tree that already bore its claw-marks from the other evening. It then ran some distance away before stopping by another tree and looking back at him.

Fíli furrowed his brow, then stepped over to the wolf, watching on as it pawed softly at the tree. It then let out what sounded almost like a happy growl, and Fíli bent over and ran his fingers across the deep gouges he now saw on the trunk.

"What is this all about?" he asked.

The animal whined again, then it barked once before turning and running swiftly away from him. It disappeared into the darkness between the trees, and after a while of staring after it, Fíli returned his attention to the scratch marks it had left behind. He examined them closer, then looked up; and not far away, in a straight line from the first two trees, he saw another damaged trunk.

The corner of Fíli's mouth turned up as he walked to the third tree, then a lightness rose into his chest and he began searching the area in earnest. Further ahead, he spotted yet another gouged tree, then he saw another beyond _that_ one; and as he hurried along, his heart began pounding hard against his ribs - half in hope, and half in fear. But within a few minutes, the fear fell away when his heavy-booted foot landed with a _thump_ on the by-now familiar stones that made up the Road.

Fíli collapsed to his knees and knocked his knuckles against the stones, so to check if they were really there; then he rubbed his brow hard with his palm and began to chuckle. What had compelled the wolf to show him the way out of Mirkwood's trackless expanses and back to the path, he could not say; but the animal was either quite intelligent, or else it had been domesticated at some point before taking to the Wood. Fíli's best guess was the latter, though the distinction mattered less than the animal's intent, and he was thankful for it beyond the ability to do much besides laugh long and low.

When he at last calmed his heaving shoulders and lifted his face to the path ahead of him, he remembered that he still had no idea which way to go - though he knew that if going in one direction brought him to one of his old campsites, then he could simply come about and go the other way. In the meantime, he would hike as far as he could with the light that the day had left; and so he drew himself onto his feet and hoisted his pack higher on his shoulders, then he set out down the path.

The light continued to fail as he went along, and in short time a _ticking_ sound began all around him; and when he turned his face up, cold drops fell on his cheeks. At once, his joy at finding the Road faded when he realized that the darkening was not because of the nearing evening, but because of a coming storm. This was not a pleasant situation, by any means. There was no shelter here, no place to hide himself from the weather; and the rain would surely soak any fallen branches to the point where he would have no fire to keep himself warm.

He stopped and quickly drew off his pack, then unfurled his bedroll and gathered as many sticks into the woolen blanket as he could, hoping that they would stay dry enough so that he might make a campfire when the storm passed. After tying the bundle shut, he fixed it again to the bottom of his pack, which he then stuffed to the top with kindling before returning it to his back. Worrying for the state of his food-supplies, he eased his nearly-empty canvas sack under his left arm, then he wrapped his cloak tightly around himself and lowered his hood over his brow as he walked on.

If the trees had been thick with leaves, he was sure that much of the rain would not have made it through the canopy - but though he could see no _light_ through the winter-bare branches above him, they did not seem to be keeping any of the heavy drops from making it through. Soon, in fact, the light sprinkle shifted into a downpour; and the hissing of the rain on the dead leaves all around him was almost maddening after being for so long in the silence of the Forest.

His going grew more difficult the longer the storm went on; and in short time his cloak and clothes were soaked, his boots were filled with water, his dripping hood was low over his eyes, and his spine began to burn as his now-wet pack weighed him down. It would not be long before he knew he would be able to go no further, and when his foot dragged unexpectedly across the road-stones and he landed his knees in the mud, he decided that it was indeed time for a rest.

The gnawing at his stomach, at least, he knew he might be able to ease, and so he slipped off his pack as he sat, then pressed his back to a large oak at the edge of the trail. He reached into his food-sack and rooted around for a few seconds, then he curled his hand into a fist and withdrew it empty. There really was little left to eat, and so he closed his sack and slid it back under his arm, then pulled his legs up to his chest and rested his brow on his knees.

His left elbow was aching more now than it had in days, and if he had been in a better mood, he would have smiled at the memory of how he and Kíli used to make fun of the older folk who would claim they could feel the bad weather in their bones. As it was, despite his earlier thrill at finding the trail, he had little humor left in him. He gritted his teeth at the ache in his arm and began to rub at it; but his fingers froze in place when he felt that the stitches there were gone, and he realized that he must have removed them in the day that lay empty behind him.

The rain began to quicken even more, and Fíli's legs and shoulders began to shake as the cold moved through them. With the shivering came a raising of the hairs on his arms, and the muscles in his neck tensed and his teeth began to chatter. Even his fingers, though he had them folded into fists, were beginning to go numb, and had to flex them several times to bring the feeling back into them.

As much as he wanted a fire at this moment, he was certain that the wood he had gathered was already too waterlogged to catch alight; but even if the rain had not soaked through the woolen blanket, he still would not have been able to light a spark in the downpour. He was bound to spend the rest of the day-and possibly the coming night-pressed up next to the giant oak; but he decided that he could at least make some use of the situation by gathering some rainwater, so that he might not go thirsty in drier days ahead.

Two of his water-skins were empty, and so he drew his knife out of the sheath on his leg and sliced the narrow top off of one of them, then he held the makeshift cup out to the rain. Slowly, it began to grow heavy with gathered water; and though he thought of storing it, he instead brought it to his lips and drank it eagerly. He hadn't realized just how thirsty he had become, as over the past week he had grown accustomed to the dryness in his throat; and after filling the cup again, he once more drank it all down.

He held the cup out for a third time, letting it this time fill to the top, then he popped the cork off the empty drink-skin and tried to pour the water inside; but his hands were unsteady from the cold, and most of what he had gathered simply spilled down the side. He gritted his teeth and tried to calm his shaking; then, somehow past the rushing of the rain, he heard a noise nearby.

Lifting his face, he peered into the darkness on the other side of the muddy path; then he smiled softly when he saw a pair of yellow eyes staring back at him from a dreary gap between the trees.

"Come on out," he said, raising his voice above the storm.

The wolf moved slowly into view, then it stopped and looked down at the path, which was by now really much more like a river. The animal scrunched back and leaped across, landing just in front of Fíli - then it lifted its head up almost proudly.

"Did you want to make sure I didn't wander off again?" asked the Dwarf, grinning wider.

The wolf turned in a circle before lying down in the mud and resting its furry chin on its paws; then its eyes flitted in Fíli's direction almost expectantly. He looked down at the cup in his hand, then held it out.

"Thirsty?"

The animal raised its scruffy brows at him, but did not move otherwise.

"Right," said Fíli, lowering the cup. "There's water _everywhere_ right right now."

His stomach growled painfully and loud, and he leaned over, clutching at it; and the animal stood and stepped nearer to him. It sniffed at his aching arm, then turned to the side and pawed at the food sack under his cloak. Arching an eyebrow, Fíli loosened the tie that held the bag shut, then he reached inside - and when his hand found the oiled-leather packet within, he gave the animal a nod.

Despite his food-stores being low, he hadn't yet eaten any of the dried- and salted-meat that Sigrid had given him, as he knew it would make him quite thirsty. But now he had plenty of water to spare, and so he drew out a small piece of the tough meat and threw it into his mouth before taking a long drink from his leather cup.

He felt a burst of warm breath on his hand and looked down at the wolf again. It placed a paw on his leg, then opened its eyes even wider and curled its lip up, almost as if it were smiling.

"Are you hungry?" he asked; and without even stopping to think, he reached back into the bag and pulled out another piece of meat. He then held it out in offer, but the animal made no move. "Go on. It's alright. You've earned it."

The wolf sniffed hesitantly at the meat, then took it gently from his fingers.

"I guess it's the least I could do, since you showed me to the Road," said Fíli, securing the sack again. "But don't expect more than that. To be honest, I haven't much food to spare."

A rivulet of icy water flowed unexpectedly over Fíli's scalp and down his neck. He shook from the chill and the animal stepped aside; then Fíli hugged his legs to his chest and again rested his brow on his knees. A moment later, he felt warmth and pressure at his side, and he let out a quick laugh before lowering his hand and scratching at the wet fur on the wolf's back.


	19. A Bit Of Meat, A Bit Of Wine

**Chapter Nineteen**

**A BIT OF MEAT, A BIT OF WINE**

**The rain has ended and the night is coming on; but for the first time since entering the Forest of Mirkwood, Fíli feels secure.**

* * *

Somehow, Fíli was able to fall asleep while the rain persisted; and when he opened his eyes some time later, he found that the wolf was no longer by his side. The woods were again silent and still, and the dim light of the Forest day was now all around him; but as cold and wet as he was, he was in no mood to continue his trek. Of course, even if he _had_ been in the mood to go on he could not have done so, as the trail was by now hidden beneath several inches of filthy water.

Behind the tree under which he had rested, there was a short, flat-topped hill that looked to be at least a little drier than the swamp where he was sitting; and so he gathered his things and struggled to his feet, then slipped and slid as he made his way up the muddy knoll. When he reached the top he spotted a ring of small stones that must have once encircled a campfire, but he had no fear that whoever had set it was still nearby, and so he sat down beside it and removed his pack once more.

Although he had not thought it possible, he was colder now than he had been in a long time; and despite having little hope that his stowed firewood would be dry enough to catch alight, he unbound the bundle and examined it. To his great surprise and relief, the wood was not as wet as he had feared it would be, and even the tinder and kindling in his oiled leather pack was mostly dry.

Fíli wasted no time then in laying his fire-bed, but it proved to be difficult getting the tinder to catch a spark, as his hands were shaking and his fingers were numb, and the flint kept slipping from his grip. After a long while, though, one of his sparks finally fell right, and soon he had blown the flames into life. The young fire grew slowly, and his hands and face started to warm, but still he shivered; and when his fingers had finally gained enough strength, he set about gathering more wood.

Not far down the side of the rise, he found a fallen elm that seemed to have been dead for quite a while. The long branches were neither rotten nor spongy, and so had not soaked up much of the rain; and the thought came to him that he might make of them a drying rack for his soggy clothing. Breaking off a number of limbs, he dragged them back to the fireside, and there set to work binding them together with the bandages that he had taken from Bard's tent.

The work warmed him somewhat, and so when he had finished his task, he was not quite so reluctant to strip himself bare so that he could lay out his clothing and boots on the rack for drying. Sitting then on his damp bedroll, he threw a few of the branches he had left over from the construction onto the fire, and the flames grew into a small blaze; and though Fíli feared that his clothes might catch alight, he did not move them away so that they might dry as quickly as possible, and he would not have to spend the whole night bare on the ground.

The Wood was growing darker again by now, but it did not have the same dreary feeling as earlier, and it was clear that it was the nighttime coming on rather than the storm returning. Strangely, although he was naked and felt rather vulnerable in general, the nearing evening did not hold the same dread for him as it had for the past week or so - but still he was startled when the sound of shuffling rose up from the darkness at the bottom of the hill.

He gripped the handle of his sword where it lay on the ground beside him; but soon a by-now familiar pair of wide eyes came into view over the rim of the rise, and he loosened his hold on the weapon. A few seconds later, the wolf padded into the ring of firelight with something red in its mouth, then it stopped abruptly and stared at him.

Fíli glanced down at himself and shrugged. "Do I look a little odd to you when I'm undressed?" he asked; but the animal stood fast, and so he focussed on what it was carrying between its teeth. "What have you got there?"

After a few heavy breaths, the wolf stepped forward and dropped the object at Fíli's side; and without stopping to think, the Dwarf lifted it and turned it over in his hand. It looked rather mangled and was covered with blood, but to Fíli's eye it seemed to be either a rock dove or a partridge - though he had no idea how the wolf could have found either in the Forest.

"Did you want me to cook it for you or something?" he asked almost breathlessly.

The wolf turned in a circle and laid down beside him, then it began licking absently at the blood-spot that had been left in the dirt; and Fíli returned his attention to the bird. It did not look _bad_, by any means. The meat smelled fresh and seemed to be altogether more wholesome than he thought anything killed in these woods possibly could - and as he examined it, his stomach began to grumble.

Fíli looked to the wolf again, and it let out a quick breath through its nose; and so, taking that as _permission_, the Dwarf grinned and tossed the bird onto a broad branch as he drew out his knife. He _hoped_, anyway, that the wolf had intended to share it with him, as the thought of a relatively hearty meal was making him hungrier by the moment; and when he slit the bird up the belly and saw how deep-red and rich the meat was, he grew even more eager and worked faster.

He made short work of cleaning out and preparing the bird, and soon it was plucked and skewered and set over the fire, while the small liver and heart he set on one of the hot stones at the edge of the flames. As the meat began cooking, he wiped his knife on a handful of wet leaves and gave the wolf a sidelong glance. The whole time he had been working, the animal had had watched on patiently, but now it was sniffing at the bloody remains on the branch.

"Go on, then," said Fíli, nodding. "I don't need the scraps, and you're the one that caught it, after all."

Needing no further urging, the animal swiftly gobbled up the head and feet and insides of the dead bird, then it licked the branch clean of blood and rested its grisly chin on Fíli's bare leg.

He raised an eyebrow at it, but soon the long-missed and tempting smell of roasting meat began to rise up, drawing his thoughts to the fire. It was too soon yet to eat the bird, as he wanted to make certain that it was cooked through-that anything foul would be burned away-and so he simply turned it over on the flames and ignored the aching in his stomach as he waited for it to char.

"Where did you manage to find this?" he asked the wolf. "I haven't seen any other living thing in the Forest besides _you_." The wolf raised its head, and he leaned down and lowered his voice, whispering affectedly. "Did _you_ eat everything here?"

The wolf raised its droopy ears, and Fíli chuckled and rubbed its scruffy head.

Casting his sight then on his drink-skins beside his pack, he grabbed the wine-skin and looked it over. Sigrid had given it to him with the suggestion that it might do him well on a cold night, though many of those had gone by without him tasting it even once, since he had been saving it for last-use, should his water run out. But now seemed like a fine time to try a bit-an accent for the roasting meat, he thought wryly-and he uncorked the skin and sniffed at the contents.

When he had smelled it in Bard's tent, the scent had been overwhelmed by the pyre-smoke in the air, but now he could tell how fresh and fruity and crisp it was. He was tempted then to take a large swallow, but he decided instead that he would restrict himself to one small drink only, so to keep the rest for the uncertain days ahead. The heady red wine's strength and sweetness surprised him, and he had to clear his throat against the burn; and next to him, the wolf whined a bit, then pulled itself up to its full height and nudged the drink-skin with its nose.

"You really shouldn't," said Fíli, returning the cork to its place. "Wine isn't good for dogs."

The animal tilted its head and settled back down with its chin on his leg once more; and Fíli cleared his throat again.

"You _are_ a dog, though?" he asked. "Or a wolf? I don't believe I've ever seen anything quite like you before." He ran his fingers through the mess of shortened hair on his own head, then he smiled softly at how it was probably not unlike the wolf's own matted and messy fur at this point. "Except for maybe myself," he added. "Is that why you're here? Do I remind you of yourself? Did you think we were related or something?"

Fíli lowered his hand then to his mustache and felt along it. It was growing back fast, and it felt odd to him where it hung loose and unbraided over his lip. He imagined that his beard must by this time look ragged and wild, as well; and as his fingertips moved over his chin, they brushed against the scar from where he had sliced himself in the tent. He wondered now if he should have carried through with shearing it off completely for his mourning, and he picked up his boot-knife and ran his thumb along the blade.

"Have you a whetstone?" he asked absently; and when the wolf let out what seemed to be a whimper of confusion, he held the knife down. "It's getting a bit dull."

The animal made a little noise that sounded almost like a laughing bark, and Fíli slid his knife into its sheath then turned towards the fire once more.

The bird's skin was by now well-blackened, and though his stomach was still warmed by the wine, he again felt the gnawing of hunger and anticipation. He withdrew the stick on which the meat was roasting, and despite the bird being nearly too hot to touch, he began eating it eagerly-almost fearing that this was a dream, and that the meat would vanish before he had a chance to finish it-and as he stripped each of the bones bare, he tossed them to the wolf.

Much sooner than Fíli had hoped, the meat was gone; and though it had been more than he'd had to eat in weeks, he was still hungry by the end of it. He snatched up and ate the sizzling liver from the fireside, then he popped the bird's charred heart into his mouth and chewed, enjoying both the tannic flavor and the pleasantly firm texture. It went down hard when he swallowed; and despite his earlier decision to take only one small drink of the wine, he helped himself to another sip.

"Thank you for dinner," he said to the wolf as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It was _your_ idea, wasn't it? Not some Wood-Elf's?"

The animal made a snuffling noise, and Fíli shrugged then turned his eyes towards the now-dark trees above him.

"No, I guess they wouldn't be so kind to me." He re-corked the wine, then lowered his face. "At least, I'm sure neither Thranduil nor his son would be. Others might, perhaps. _Tauriel_, certainly. But I would think she'd at least let me know if she was out there."

The animal tilted its head up as it continued to gnaw lazily on the bones, and Fíli scratched it under its bloody chin; but he stopped when he felt a smooth, hairless patch underneath the fur. It felt like a scar; and when he angled his head down, he saw that it was not just one, but a series of three, like claw-marks trailing down the animal's throat.

Growing curious, Fíli began feeling along the animal's bony back, frowning when he found many more scars of varying ages and severity under the matted and tangled fur. What awful things, he wondered, had left such wounds behind? He slid his finger along a particularly broad scar on the wolf's neck, and it looked up suddenly.

"It's a hard life in the Forest, isn't it?" he asked, pulling his hand away; then he let his sight wander down his own bare body. "It's a hard life all over these days. I've quite a few scars, myself. More than I used to, at any rate."

Even in the dim firelight he could see that the wound on his side was healed over quite well; and though it itched, there was no reddening around it - probably thanks to the kingsfoil that he had applied when the cut had been fresh. His elbow also looked somewhat better, as it was no longer swollen or bruised from where he had slammed it into the shield during the Battle; but the arrow-slice below it did not look quite so well. It did not hurt, really, and in fact it felt rather numb around the wound itself; but there was a darkening of the skin there, and when he pressed against it he felt a bit of hardening, as if there was scar tissue on the muscle, itself.

Lifting his hand then to the back of his head, he felt carefully around the scar that Azog had left behind; but he did not let his touch linger there for long, and instead swiftly rose to his feet and stepped over to where his clothes were drying. His trousers and boots and cloak were still damp - though his tunic was fairly dried, and he pulled it off the branches and held it up to the light. The hole that the goblin had left in the fabric was longer than it had been before, and he feared that if he continued to put off mending it, it would tear all the way around; and so he sat again by the fire and drew out his needle and thread and shears, and soon he was busying himself with stitching the tear shut.

He thought he was doing a rather poor job at it, though, and he nodded at the memory of Sigrid suggesting that he bring a spare set of clothing with him. She had been right about that, of course. At this rate, by the end of his journey he might very well be reduced to wearing a few scraps held together with bits of string.

Fíli thought often, in fact, about all that he and Sigrid had spoken about in the few hours before he had left Erebor - and always, the memories of their conversations led to him wondering how long it had been before she had told Balin about his survival. It was doubtful that she would have waited very long; and the more he thought about it, the more surprised he was that he had not been tracked down before he had gotten into the Forest. The goat mount might well have been the answer to that, he knew, as it would have shortened the trip significantly; and since his kin would have thought he was on foot, then they likely would not have expected him to move along as quickly as he had.

"Would it really have been so bad if they'd have found me, though?" he wondered out loud; and when the wolf raised its head, he went on, beyond the threat of embarrassment. "I'm sure Balin would have sent the Arkenstone off to some other place if I'd have..."

The mention of the King's Jewel stopped his words, and he looked down at the fingertips of his right hand as he tightened his jaw. The tingling the Arkenstone had forced under his skin was gone, but the desperation of its call was still at the back of his thoughts; and he knew that if he had the power to order Balin to send it off to some far away place, then he would also have the power to order it returned to him - and this time he might not be able to let it go.

Fíli's left hand began to cramp where he was holding tightly to his shirt, and he released the fabric and flexed his fingers a few times, trying to force some strength into them. They continued to ache, though, and he rubbed them against his bare leg, then he awkwardly tied off the last stitch and snipped the thread. He looked over at the wolf, who was still staring at him; and he held the shirt up, showing it how he had mended the cloth.

"How's that look?" he asked; and the animal resumed chewing on a bone as he lowered the tunic to his lap. "Good enough, I suppose."

He slipped the shirt on, then rotated his shoulders to check its fit. It was a lot looser now than when Sigrid had first given it to him; and he knew well that was because the long days of marching on a perpetually empty stomach had begun to waste him away. He looked again at the scrawny animal by his side. It had likely spent most-if not _all_-of its life under Mirkwood's boughs, and it certainly showed in both its scarring and its weight. Why it had ever thought to share its small meal with him, he wished he could say; except that perhaps it had itself grown lonely after so long in the darkness and silence of the Forest.

"How long have you been here?" he asked, scratching its neck. "Did you live with people before you came here? Or have you _always_ been here?"

The wolf seemed to be greatly enjoying the attention and it rolled to the side and stretched out, and Fíli rubbed the fur at its ribs. It shifted, then, onto its back, and his hand froze in place as he studied its scarred underside.

"So, you're a girl, then?"

The animal whined and quickly rolled onto its belly, then pawed at his leg; and Fíli turned his eyes towards the hidden treetops.

"It's best if I don't linger in one place, so I'll not be staying here for much longer," he said. "But I won't mind if you come along, at least for a while."

A few minutes of silence passed, then he looked to the wolf once more. It was again lying down with its chin on its paws, and it seemed as if it had not turned away from him at all in that time. Fíli yawned and laid back on his still-damp bedroll, then he pulled his pack near and rested his head on it. Folding his hands over his chest, he stared up into the darkness, listening to the crackling of the campfire and watching as the sparks first drifted up, then faded out of sight.

"Do you have a name?" he asked, reaching over and placing a hand on the wolf's head.

The animal moved closer to him and pressed itself to his side, resting its chin on his arm, and Fíli smiled. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt secure - though whether it was because of the meal or the wine or his new company, he could not tell.


	20. Drawn To The Water

**Chapter Twenty**

**DRAWN TO THE WATER**

**The wolf has been by Fíli's side for three days, and he has even settled on a name for her; but when he comes to danger in the form of black water, she is suddenly nowhere to be found.**

* * *

For each of the next three evenings, the wolf would curl up next to Fíli as he went to sleep; and always, she was still there when he awoke. Whether because of her presence or for some other reason, Fíli had noticed that his dreams had neither been so bold nor so disturbing as before; though his most recent sleep had been cut short by the mumbling of voices in his ears. When he had opened his eyes, the voices had cleared for just a moment, and he'd recognized them as belonging to Balin and Kíli and himself - a memory of a time when the older Dwarf had been telling them some tale about Azanulbizar.

When his vision came into focus and the voices faded, Fíli found the wolf staring at him and panting gently; and after looking into her keen eyes for a moment, a name had slipped into his mind from the far-off childhood memory that had been echoing in his dream. He had tried a number of names out on her over the past few days, hoping to be able to call her something other than _'you'_ as they went along, and always she had greeted them with indifference; but when he'd spoken this one aloud, she had perked up her ears and wagged her tail excitedly.

After sharing a few bites of dried meat, they had then set out towards the west again, walking on for what Fíli felt must have been two miles. His feet began to speed up as the path sloped downwards, and his back was beginning to ache and his stomach was grumbling, and he knew that soon he would need to stop for a rest. But before long, the slope that they had been making their way down flattened out, and just a little farther along he stopped suddenly and gaped at the wide, black water cutting across the path some fifty feet ahead.

"This could be a problem," he said under his breath; and beside him the wolf growled softly.

He had not been aware that the Forest River cut through Southern Mirkwood, but if it was the same distance from the western edge of the Forest as the northern branch was, then he at least knew how far he had yet to go. That was not a comfort to him, though, as he remembered that the Company's hike to this point had taken them a fortnight, at least - and his food stores were much too low to last another two weeks in the Forest.

If the wolf could have caught another bird or other small animal from time to time, the situation might not have been so dire; but though she had stopped and stared into the darkness between the trees once or twice as they had gone along, she had yet to run off again in search of a meal - and Fíli supposed that was simply because there _was_ nothing out there to find, though he was certain that her senses were keen enough to spot any prey from quite a distance.

"Well, maybe there will be better hunting on the other side of the River," he said with a shrug.

The animal made no sound, and he glanced down to discover that she was no longer at his side. He turned in a circle, squinting into the darkness between the trees, then he looked back along the trail; but she was nowhere to be seen. He rested his hand on the haft of his sword, then pursed his lips and turned west once more.

"I wish you'd warn me before you run off," he said barely aloud; then he strode cautiously forward.

He did not know what dangers lay on the black river this far south, but he remembered well its effects on the Company when they'd gone through the Northern Forest - he remembered how it had tried to draw them in and drown them in forgetfulness, he remembered how it had sent Bombur into a deep sleep that he could not be roused from until the spiders' poison had woken him. And now, there was no one there to hold Fíli back, should the dark water try to pull _him_ in.

As he neared the River, however, a sense of dread set in; and he stood fast when a sinking ache worked its way suddenly into his chest. He recognized the vines that hung from the trees above him, he recognized the stones that were jutting up out of the water, he recognized the remains of the broken bridge that sat on the bank. This was not Southern Mirkwood, as he thought he'd been traveling through, it was not the Old Forest Road; he was in the northern part of the Forest again, on the Elven Path - the same road that he and the Company had taken on their way east.

Why he had taken this route, he could not say; though he knew that he must have chosen to do so for good reason. Maybe he had decided that the Long Marshes were too large and boggy to pass, or maybe he had taken Sigrid's warnings to heart - or maybe he had simply chosen to take a road that was at least somewhat more familiar to him. In any case, he was now even more uncertain of how long it had taken him to get to the Forest; but if Sigrid had told Balin and the others that he was making for _Southern_ Mirkwood, then they would have been searching for him in the wrong place all along.

_Guess that's why they haven't tracked me down yet,_ he thought with a shake of his head.

But still his path lay before him, and he knew he would have to find some way across the slow-flowing river and continue on. The first time through, the Company had climbed on and scurried across the low-slung branches and vines; but now the stiffness in his fingers and his still-weakened left arm would make that course nearly impossible - even without the added complication of the water itself trying to lure him in, and so he tried to think of some other way.

He ran his hand along the rope that was coiled over his shoulder, but he knew it would do him little good in this case, as it was not long enough to reach the other side, and he also had no hook with which to snag a hold on anything. A few leaf-covered steps led down to the brink, but he dared not step on them, as they looked slick and were tilted from long years of roots pushing up on them from underneath; and at any rate, the remains of the stonework bridge were cracked and oddly-angled, and simply too far-spaced for him to be able to hop across.

"What do you think?" he asked the wolf; but his voice fell flat against the trees and he looked to his side, only then remembering that the animal had wandered off.

He quickly returned his attention to the River, and as he stared at the dimness near the far bank, he thought for a moment of making a bridge of freshly-felled trunks; but when he lowered his hand to his waist, his touch landed on the haft of his sword, rather than the head of his axe. He glanced down at the ground and turned in a circle, searching for where he had dropped it; then he squeezed his eyes shut and took several steps back away from the River.

Already, the water seemed to be stealing his senses and making him forget, and he knew that if he did not soon find a way to the other side, he would have to go back some distance and give his mind a chance to clear. Turning to the right, he looked upriver for a way across; but for as far north as he could see, gnarled and twisted branches came thick to the bank, thin and brittle vines dipped down close to the near-stagnant water, and winter-dead ivy lay coiled and criss-crossed on the dark soil, hiding whatever dangers might be underneath.

Downriver, the going seemed a bit easier, with fewer trees and vines, and here and there sandy patches that looked firm enough to step on without sinking in. And so he turned that way, then made his way along the bank, all the while being careful not to look too deep into the water beside him; but despite his best efforts, he still found himself being pulled towards the River with each step south. After a time, the toe of his heavy boot splashed down into a small stream that was being fed out from the River to some roots that were jutting out of the ground like skeletal fingers clawing their way out of a grave; and he faltered back, then side-stepped away from the water until it was no longer close enough for his foot to reach.

Looking then to his right, he saw the trunk of a long-since-fallen tree that was lying very nearly straight across the River; and though it was not quite long enough to reach the other side, he figured that with a great enough leap he could make it from the end of the trunk to the far shore. At any rate, he felt that the more time he spent searching for a better way across, the more likely he would be to find himself instead sliding happily into the depths - so he scrambled up the pulled-up roots, then balanced on his hands and knees with all the care he could manage on the slightly-tilted trunk.

As he made his way across on all fours, he kept his eyes at first on the western bank, but once or twice he glanced at the log beneath him, then looked further down into the water. Before he had gotten very far, he was no longer concerned with what lay ahead of him, and his body sank lower and lower on the trunk as he went forward; then a comfortable fatigue started to set in, and his crawling slowed as he stared even deeper into the water.

A familiar whining came from the shore behind him and he blinked several times, trying to bring himself back to wakefulness; and though he wanted to turn and ask the wolf why she had run off, his head bobbed and his hand slipped off the side of the trunk. He landed hard on his chest, and he pulled his hand up away from the water; but the black depths had begun to look warm and welcoming to him, and he was beginning to feel that he could wrap the water around himself like a blanket.

The wolf whined again, but Fíli did not turn back. He was certain that she would come and curl herself up by his side if he happened to fall asleep; and sure enough, he heard her stepping on the log, and the trunk shook slightly under her weight.

He let his fingers dangle down towards the water once more, and the black surface seemed to rise up to meet him; then his fingertips dipped in and a chill traveled through his hand and up into his arm. But it was a _comforting_ chill, and he leaned over and reached further until the water came up over his wrist; then he closed his eyes and drew in a long breath, though he did not feel himself exhale.

...

When Fíli awoke, he felt the familiar cold stones that made up the road under his back and heard the crackling of a nearby fire; and he grunted and rolled to his side, keeping his eyes tightly shut as he tried to recall just how he had gotten away from the dark water. A moment later he felt movement at the back of his head and he started - then he blinked and smiled when a soft burst of warm air hit his neck.

"Where'd you run off to?" he asked, reaching up and rubbing the wolf's leg.

She whined a bit and pawed at his shoulder; and Fíli rolled onto his back again and saw above him what was possibly a dissipating morning fog. After a few seconds of staring at the mist, he pulled himself to sitting, then he scratched under the wolf's chin as he took a better look around. The first thing he noticed was that River was no longer in sight, in either direction; then he turned to the fire and saw that his rope and pack lay just beside it. His bedroll, food-sack, and drink-skins were still tied securely in place, however, and he thought it odd that he would have set the fire and not settled the rest of his camp.

Right now, though, he was less concerned about that than he was about the gnawing in his stomach, and he grabbed his pack and pulled it near, intent on having a little breakfast; but before he could open it, he saw a hand-axe on the ground behind where the pack had been resting. He lifted the weapon, turning it over and examining the notch in the head - and although he could only vaguely recall what the axe that Sigrid had given to him looked like, he knew that it was the same.

His heart began to thrum in his ears, and he turned to the fire, eyeing it carefully. It seemed strange to him; it seemed _wrong_. The wood was stacked differently and burned closer to the center than any Dwarf would have cared for, and he knew that he himself would never have set it in such a way - and, so, he and the wolf were not _alone_; but that she was not on-guard told him that she had no fear of whoever was there.

Gritting his teeth, he gripped the axe tighter and leaned close to the animal, rubbing her head gently as his eyes scanned the woods on either side of the trail. "Where is he, Nár?" he asked, keeping his voice low. "Where's your friend that set the fire?"

The wolf lifted her head as a rustling sound came from above and not too far to the right of the path; and Fíli quickly turned that way, as well.

"She has no name," a somewhat familiar voice drifted down. "And if she did, it would not be a _Dwarf_ name."

Fíli let out a small groan; then he set the axe on the ground and pressed his hand to his aching brow. "Hello, Legolas" he said flatly. "I trust the Battle went well for you."

A faint sound like feet hitting the leaf-covered Forest floor was followed by soft footfalls, and a moment later the Elven prince came striding into the light. He looked much the same as when Fíli had last seen him, though he now had a satchel slung over his shoulder and he wore a long green cloak on his back, and he was peering down at the Dwarf past sunken eyebrows.

"Better than it did for _you_, it seems," he said coolly.

Fíli's jaw tightened, then he turned again to the wolf and ruffled the fur between her ears. "_She_ doesn't seem to mind the name," he said, shifting the subject back; then he spoke to the wolf, herself. "_Do_ you, Nár?"

Legolas made an almost-exasperated huffing noise; but he said nothing, and Fíli went on.

"Does she belong to you?"

"My people do not keep _pets_," said Legolas, his voice registering some slight bit of disgust with the last word. "She belongs only to herself."

A crooked smile rose to Fíli's lips, and he looked up, expecting to see the Elf still standing near the trees; but he found him instead crouching on the path and staring at him past the fire. The flickering flames gave his pale face an eerie aspect, and his already-bright eyes very nearly glowed in the illumination; and, somewhat startled by the sight, Fíli cleared his throat and moved slightly away from him.

"How long was I asleep?" he asked, trying to regain his composure.

"Nearly a day and a half."

The answer took Fíli by surprise, though ache in his stomach told him to believe the Elf. "It felt like only moments."

"You were fortunate that you only wet your arm," said Legolas. "If you had fallen in fully and managed not to drown, you would have been asleep for much longer, and you would have forgotten many other days, besides."

_I don't need the River for that, _thought Fíli, looking down at the hand that had gone into the water. "And will you now be dragging me back to your dungeons?"

"I could easily have done that when you were asleep, if I had wanted to."

Fíli gave him a small nod. "Fair enough," he said. "So then, why are you still here?"

"I would ask the same of _you_," said Legolas, tilting his chin up. "Or, perhaps, _how_ you are here. The dead do not tend to walk around the northern Forest, despite what the Men of the Lake would say. Though they may not have been half-mistaken in this case, as I have seldom had cause to doubt my own eyes, and I saw you dead, myself."

The memory of Legolas staring down at him on the battlefield brought with it echoes of pain in the back of Fíli's head, and he reached back and rubbed at his healed-over wound.

"_Did_ you?" he asked with feigned ignorance. "Well, that _is_ strange, isn't it?"

Still, despite his affected nonchalance, Sigrid's warning about Southern Mirkwood repeated in Fíli's mind, and he wondered if _the dead_ were among the dangers he would have encountered if he had taken the Old Forest Road. He suppressed a shudder, then pursed his lips as he lowered his hand to his lap.

"Well, thank you for... well, for not letting me drown, I suppose." He looked at Nár, who was staring at him expectantly. "And thank _you_, as well. Even if you were spying on me the whole time."

"She was not spying," said Legolas.

"No? It wasn't she that told you I was at the River, then?"

Legolas gave no answer; and Fíli nodded, feeling as if he had scored a small point on the Elf.

He lifted his cloak-hood over his head, then grabbed the rope and fixed it to the bottom of his pack before slinging it up onto his shoulders. Gathering his strength, he then struggled to his feet, but a wave of dizziness sent him stumbling to the side; and after righting himself, he stretched his back and looked again to Legolas.

"Not that I don't appreciate your help," he said, "but all I need from you now is to find out which way is west."

The Elf tilted his head to the right; and without giving him another word, Fíli began walking in that direction. A few steps along, however, he stopped and let out a few shallow, ragged breaths as his head began to swim and his knees grew weak.

"Is something wrong?" asked Legolas, sounding rather indifferent.

"Why? Are you concerned about my welfare?" asked Fíli, sliding his pack off. "If what you say about how long I was sleeping is true, then I haven't eaten in about two days. Some people need to do that once in a while, in case you've forgotten."

"Did you enjoy the partridge?"

Fíli gritted his teeth, then opened his food-sack. "So it was from _you_, then?" he asked mock-casually as he pulled a crumbling chunk of cram out of the bag.

"I would not _be so kind to you_."

The pain in Fíli's head grew suddenly worse, and he looked down as Nár padded over to his side. "Couldn't keep quiet, could you?" he asked. "What _else_ did you tell him?"

The wolf let out a little bark, and Fíli hung the pack over the crook of his elbow, then threw the small piece of cram into his mouth as he began walking once more; but before he managed a single stride, his eyes went blurry and he stumbled. He shook his head, trying to chase off the wave of vertigo, then glanced down at the wolf, who was whining once again.

"Just... _don't_," Fíli scolded her, walking on. "I'm not happy with you right now."

He swallowed the cram, coughing when it went down in a hard and dry lump, then he clutched at his water-skins. They were more full now than when he'd last checked them, and he glanced back towards Legolas before returning his attention to his pack.

"You forgot your axe," Legolas called out.

Fíli stopped in mid-stride and lowered his hand to his waist; then he squeezed his eyes shut. "What makes you think it's mine?"

"Is it not?"

Fíli lowered his head in half a nod, then he began turning back around towards the Elf. He could not hold his balance, though, and his knees buckled and he pitched forward. The ground rushed up at him, but a hand landed on his chest, stalling his fall; then he was eased to sitting on the trail. He felt the hand move to his shoulder for a moment before it pulled away; and after a few deep breaths, Fíli turned his eyes to where Legolas now crouched before him.

"I guess I'm more hungry than I thought," said Fíli, grimacing. "Cram is more heavy than hearty, I think..."

Legolas stared at him, then looked over at the wolf, who laid a paw on his leg and let out a small growl. The Elf then sighed and swung his satchel out in front of himself, drawing from it something wrapped in a dark green leaf. He held it out to Fíli, who glanced at Nár. She lowered her paw from Legolas's leg and instead placed it on Fíli's own; and he at last took the packet from Legolas's grip.

"What is it?" he asked, squinting suspiciously.

"Waybread," said the Elf. "It is called _lembas."_

"Do I eat the leaf, or just what's inside?"

Legolas furrowed his brow, then he stood and walked a few steps away before stopping and looking into the darkened trees. Fíli unwrapped the bundle and snapped off a corner of the bread, then placed the piece tentatively on his tongue; then his eyes widened at the pleasant sweetness and he chewed on it eagerly.

"That one cake should last you at least a couple days," said Legolas without looking down, "if you do not eat more than you need to at a time."

"That may be difficult," Fíli admitted, rewrapping the bundle. "And I thank you for it, but what I really want is just to get out of your Forest."

Legolas cast his eyes up towards the hidden sky, then turned and held a hand out to the wolf. She rushed to him, then he bent over and spoke softly; a few seconds later, the wolf returned to Fíli's side, panting and wagging.

"She will go with you," said Legolas. "For whatever reason, she enjoys your company. Stay with her and she will not allow you to lose your way."

Fíli scratched the top of Nár's head. "She hasn't yet."

"You will find that the Forest is not so overbearing as it was when you first passed through," Legolas went on, "and the trees will not now be so inclined to try and lead you astray."

"I've been wondering about that," said Fíli, resisting the temptation to take another bite of lembas. "Why are there no..."

"The spider population has been thinned somewhat," Legolas went on, cutting him off, "and if you do not leave the trail they should not be a problem for you." He walked back to the fire, then he lifted the axe and returned to Fíli's side and held it down to him. "I wouldn't suggest that you use this on any living trees while in the Forest."

"Where did you find it, anyway?" asked Fíli, taking the weapon and resting it on his lap. "I lost it a week ago, at least."

"It was on the path, not far from the trailhead," said Legolas; then he started making his way into the midst of the darkened trees. "Be sure to extinguish the fire before you leave it."

Fíli's hand tightened around the axe handle. "Legolas?" he called out, suddenly and to his own surprise. The Elf looked back over his shoulder; but he said nothing, and Fíli went on. "I would appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone you saw me here."

Legolas's eyes shifted to the side for a moment, then he turned away once more and disappeared into the darkness; though as he went, Fíli felt a strange wave of regret wash over him. There was much that he wanted to know about what was now going on at the Mountain, but he had been unable to bring any of it up. At least, he thought, Legolas hadn't asked any questions of his own, though Fíli wasn't sure of many of the answers, himself.

Nár, perhaps sensing Fíli's distress, rubbed her shaggy muzzle against the Dwarf's chin, then turned in a circle before lying down and placing her head on his lap. The unkempt fur on her brow rose as her yellow eyes widened, then she let out a quick breath through her nose.

"I don't mind _you_, really," said Fíli, rubbing the animal's back. "But would you please stop telling the Elf about everything I do?"


	21. Unseen

**Chapter Twenty-One**

**UNSEEN**

**Fíli and Nár come to danger in the darkness of the Forest night.**

* * *

Two days and the night between them had passed since Fíli woke from his river-crossing, and in that time he and Nár had continued west along the trail with no troubles. Now, the second evening had fallen and the Forest darkness was deep; and though Fíli had been following as best he could the sound of Nár's panting and the soft rustling of the leaves under her feet, she had moved steadily ahead while Fíli slipped and stumbled behind.

"We best settle in for the evening," he called out; then he listened in the pitch blackness as the wolf came back to his side. "We'll get moving again with the light tomorrow. Or what light there _is_ tomorrow, anyway."

Fíli quickly set about making his camp, but despite the chill in the air, he tried to keep his fire small. Over the course of the last couple days he had seen the tattered remains of black webs strung here and there between the tree trunks, and he always hurried past when he noticed them - but now that he was settling in for the evening and the fire was giving some light, he saw more just to the side of the trail.

At least, he thought, he had yet to actually see any spiders; and he supposed that what Legolas had said about their population being thinned was true. That did not make him feel any safer about being near where they had once lived, however, and he stared warily up at the darkened treetops, half-expecting to see some foul creature scurrying down - though he knew that if anything _was_ out there, Nár would give him fair warning. But still he drew his axe off his belt and laid it beside his bedroll for his defense in the night; then he turned his attention to his aching stomach.

Since crossing the River, the wolf had once in a while bounded off into the midst of the trees; and she had always come back a couple minutes later, licking bits of blood off her mouth. She had yet to bring anything else for Fíli, but given how quickly she had eaten whatever she had caught, he knew that her prey must have been too small to share - rats or mice or shrews of some sort. But in any case, her hunting seemed to have filled her up enough that whenever Fíli offered her anything from his food-sack, she had refused it.

The Dwarf himself hadn't eaten anything but lembas in the past two days, and it was a welcome change from dried fruit and cram and preserved meat, all of which just made him thirsty; and even considering the fact that Legolas had refilled the water-skins while Fíli had been asleep from the River, he did not want to waste it. Still, though he had been trying to keep from eating more of the waybread than absolutely necessary, he was already down to a small chunk - and that, he knew, would not last him much longer.

"I wouldn't mind a hare for dinner," he said, looking over at Nár. "I don't suppose you smell any around here?" The wolf tilted her head and Fíli let himself smile a bit as he took nibble of the Elvish bread. "No? Not a squirrel, even?"

Nár laid her head on her paws, but as Fíli rewrapped the lembas in its leaf bundle, the animal turned suddenly and looked off into the woods north of the trail. She sniffed at the air, perked up her ears, and opened her bright eyes wide.

"Do you smell something?" asked Fíli.

He squinted into the darkness, wondering if Nár had sensed something fit for eating, after all; then he tightened his jaw and slumped his shoulders.

"Is it Legolas again?

Nár growled low, then jumped to her feet and moved a few halting steps away from the fire. Just within the reach of the darkness, she set her paws firmly on the ground and curled her lip up into a snarl; then she moved another step closer to the trees and bristled the fur on her neck.

Fíli let his hand fall on the hilt of his sword. _Alright, it isn't Legolas..._

"Nár... get back to the fire..." he told her; but the words had barely left his mouth when Nár launched herself into the shadowy woods.

A rush of panicked energy ran through his body as he stood and drew out his sword; and with his free hand, he pulled a long branch with a flaming end from the fire and held it out towards where the wolf had vanished. He saw nothing, but the sound of yelping and snapping came suddenly out of the darkness, and Fíli stepped off the edge of the path.

He knew he should stay on the trail, knew that it was not wise to leave the fire; but despite the warnings in his own mind, he was not willing to let Nár fight on her own. He bounded ahead, and with his movement his torch went out completely; and so he threw it back towards the fire and started feeling around the trees as he made his way forward.

His hand came to rest on a cold, bristly branch and he pulled back, then hesitantly reached out again. He ran his fingers down its side, then he tapped it softly with his knuckles. Even past the nearby growling, it sounded hollow. Jumping aside, he swung out hard, drawing his sword across what he now knew to be a spider's limb. There was a _crack_ as the blade cut through the creature's shell, and the severed leg fell to the ground with a muted _thud_; but neither a screech of pain nor any retaliation followed.

Cautiously, he grabbed hold of the leg that still stuck up in front of him, then he moved his touch down to where it met the creature's body. The spider was on its back with its limbs already curled up in death. His hand slid back up to the snapped end and felt where some thick, sticky fluid was dripping from where he had severed it. A foul smell rose up - not blood, but rot. The spider had been dead already for some time.

Whatever Nár was now fighting, however, was very much alive, and a furious crashing of bodies against tree-trunks brought Fíli's attention back around. He wheeled about and made his way towards the sound, hoping that he would not run into a tree as he groped and stumbled, following the growling and snarling as best he could. When he drew nearer, a deep and resonant howl halted him; and he gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on his weapon.

_A Forest wolf..._ he thought; and his breath quickened as his heart began to race.

The howl was answered by another, slighter and shorter one that could only have been Nár's own, then there was a sudden, fierce growl, followed by a yelp. The combatants separated and Fíli heard snarling both to the left and ahead of him, and a moment later the shadowed creatures came together again with a thud. He heard a frail whine, then something tumbled across the ground to his right.

Sudden silence fell, and Fíli's eyes darted back and forth as he listened anxiously. Past the rushing of his own blood in his ears, he heard ragged breathing to his side; and ahead of him, rough and fast panting. He shifted his feet on the leaf-covered ground, then took one step sideways, towards where he was certain Nár lay. But before he could make it to her side, something hit him in the chest and he was sent flying back. He landed hard, and his back arched over a great root jutting out of the ground; and at once, the base of his spine began to burn.

He grunted and strained, doing his best to ignore the pain as he tried to draw himself away from the root; but the animal stepped onto his chest, digging its claws into his skin and forcing the air out of his lungs with its weight. He struggled for breath, and when he at last managed to take one in, it was hot and smelled foul - like the creature was leaning close to his face. Something warm and wet fell onto his cheek, but whether it was blood or the beast's mouth watering in hungry anticipation, he could not tell.

Though he had managed to keep a hold on his sword as he fell, his instinct now was to push the creature's face away from his own; and so he fought to reach his left hand up to its throat. There he felt rough fur and he shoved against it with all the strength he could manage, though his arm was weak and his elbow burned. The animal pushed back down against him and its teeth snapped together inches from his ear.

Fíli tightened his hand around the hilt of his sword and he swung it up, and the steel vibrated as the broad side of the weapon struck the beast's skull.

_...A warg..._

He had fought enough of them in the past to know what they sounded like, what they smelled like, what it felt like when a weapon came into contact with one; and he now knew that he was in a far worse position that he had at first believed. But he did not have the time to mull over why he had not sooner realized what the beast really was, and he swung his weapon up again, being sure this time to angle the tip of the blade towards where he knew the creature's neck must be.

The sword glanced off the warg, and he drew back once more, but his next swing was stalled when the weight on his chest eased unexpectedly. The sound of the two animals clashing came again from off to his side, and he rolled to his knees, gasping for breath; then he rose unsteadily to his feet and stumbled towards the fray with his sword held at the ready.

Nár and the warg were rolling and clawing and snapping too much for him to get near, and even if he managed to get into the fight, Fíli knew he would have a terrible time trying to tell the two of them apart - but the decision of whether or not to join in was made for him when the combatants lurched together in his direction. Something struck him on the head and he saw a flash of light as he spun onto the leaf-covered dirt, his sword tumbling from his grip. The animals stomped and growled, fell to the ground, and rolled against Fíli where he lay trying to get his bearings; and without stopping to think, he reached out and grabbed a handful of fur with his stronger right hand.

The fur was rough and long, and the immense muscles underneath it tensed firmly. The beast roared and stomped and dragged him across the ground, and still Fíli held tight to its shaggy coat; and after a few moments he was able to tell that it was the creature's foreleg that he had in his grip. The warg pulled back on him, then its teeth snapped close to his face again. Fíli drew out his boot-knife with his free hand, and when he felt the warg's hot breath near his face once more, he thrust the blade deep through the fur and flesh of its throat.

The warg began to pitch and gurgle, and in the midst of its thrashing it wrenched the knife out of Fíli's grip and tossed him off to the side. It stepped down hard on his left arm, then stumbled over him; and he pressed his now-burning elbow to his side and curled himself up, trying to protect the rest of his body from the warg's throes. Once it had gotten far enough away that he felt he would be safe in moving, he climbed to his knees and began feeling frantically around the Forest floor for his dropped sword.

He found it some few feet away, and with it once more in-hand, he drew himself up and made his way to where the warg now writhed and gasped. It shifted and kicked, and from what Fíli could tell, it was lying on its side. Stepping wide around behind the beast, he reached out blindly and grabbed onto a length of fur, then felt around until he found the base of the creature's neck. He drew his sword up high, then swung it down with all the strength he could manage at the creature's head.

The blade failed to cut through the hard skull, and the warg kicked harder, then rolled to its feet as it hacked past the knife in its throat. Fíli shoved it over onto its side again, and though its claws were now scraping the ground alarmingly close to him, he pulled his sword back then thrust it forward, this time stabbing at the beast's softer underside. The blade went through with much more ease and the warg let out a long whine, and he pushed the sword deeper still and twisted.

A gush of warmth coated Fíli's hand, and the beast shuddered, then lay still; and he pulled the sword out of its body and slid it back into the sheath, then he stepped back and tried to calm his shaking hands. He knew that he was not in good shape, as his back ached, his left elbow burned, and his head was swimming - but it was not for himself that he was now most concerned.

"Nár!" he called out, not bothering to worry if anything else was out there listening. "Where are you?"

There was complete silence now all around him, save the pounding of his own heart in his ears and the hissing of his breaths through clenched teeth. He stepped past the dead beast and started feeling almost desperately around the trees. He could not let himself consider the possibility that Nár had died in the fight, or that she had run off. No, she was there somewhere, maybe hurt. Definitely hurt. He had heard her yelping when the warg had been tossing her about.

He held his breath and listened again, but still he heard nothing; though some distance away, he could see his firelight flickering on the trail. And so he made for his camp in the hopes that a torch might help him to seek out his companion - but before he took more than a few steps, he did at last hear _something_. Soft whining, he supposed. Whimpering, the rustling of leaves.

"Come here, Nar..." he said, holding out a shaking hand. "Come here... come to me."

Rustling rose up again, and panting breaths came near; then the wolf rubbed her head under Fíli's palm. He lowered himself to his knees beside her and began running his hands over her fur. He felt stickiness on her neck - blood, he supposed, but too thick to be Nár's own. She had likely been in the middle of the fight when Fíli had stabbed the warg in the throat, and the beast's black blood had coated her fur just the same as his own hand.

"Don't ever run off like that again," he scolded gently, wiping his fingers on his trouser leg. She whimpered once more, and Fíli sighed and stood. "Come on," he said, keeping a palm on the animal's head as he led the way toward the campfire. "Let's get cleaned up."

At the fireside, Fíli sat down hard on the ground and looked to Nár, who laid down beside him. He had been right that the stickiness he had felt on Nár's neck was not from any wound of the wolf's own, as it was thick and black as pitch. Fíli rubbed the top of her head softly, then reached over with his left hand to better help him search through her fur for wounds, though when he did so his elbow began to burn even more.

He turned up his left sleeve, examining his arm as best he could in the dim light. The joint did not seem to be dislocated, at least, and though it ached mightily, he was sure it wasn't broken. Most likely he would be fine after resting it for a while, though he felt that the sling Sigrid had given to him would again be finding use. He shoved his sleeve further up onto his shoulder so to better see his upper arm, but when he twisted his torso to look at it, he felt pain in the skin of his chest and his back throbbed.

Lifting his tunic, he looked to where the warg had dug its claws into him. The area was red and welted, and he was sure bruises would be raising there later, but his skin was not broken and his ribs did not feel cracked. He let out a relieved, though painful breath, then lowered his shirt and pressed his pained left arm to his body as he turned his attention to the wolf, who was still panting heavily by his side.

"Let's take a look at _you_ now," he said, scratching her head once more. "Does anything hurt?"

His words slurred slightly and he shook his head; and Nár shifted off to the side, then pulled her paw out from underneath her and began licking it. For a few seconds, Fíli could not quite figure out why that should be significant; then he took a few deep breaths, and his thoughts cleared a touch. He lifted and examined the wolf's paw and found that it was swollen, but did not appear to be broken; so he drew a length of bandage out from his pack, and soon he had wrapped Nár's paw and lower leg as tightly as he was able.

"Is that better?" he asked.

A sudden ache pressed in on his temples and a flashing light played at the edge of his vision, and he winced and doubled his fists. These sensations meant no good, he knew, and he began feeling around his own head. There was a bit of haze in his thoughts, and he could not quite recall the whole of the fight he had just had with the warg - but he remembered something had hit him, and he had seen a flash of light. But there was no wound on his scalp, as far as he was able to tell, and slowly his lightheadedness lifted a bit.

He allowed himself a few quiet moments of staring into the fire before drawing more bandages out of his pack, then he turned again to Nár. The warg-blood on her neck was mostly in one spot, but it was so thick and sticky that all he managed to do was spread it around and blacken the cloth when he tried to clean it away.

Nár lowered her head and let out a small whine, and Fíli drew his eyebrows together in concern.

"What's wrong?" he asked, feeling gently around her neck. "Did I hurt you?"

His unsteady fingers came to a gash under the blood and he pulled his touch away, but not quickly enough to avoid paining the wolf and making her shrink back. She lifted her head again, then rested it on Fíli's lap and turned it to the side; and the new position made it easier for the Dwarf to see the wound. It was fairly deep, though thankfully not too long, and it appeared that the foul black blood had seeped into it.

Drawing one of his water-skins near, he fumbled with the cork. "This will probably sting," he told her; then he gave his scarred elbow a quick glance. "But trust me when I say that leaving warg-blood under your skin is a bad thing."

Fíli allowed some of the water to flow over her wound, then he patted at it gently with one of the bandages; and when he was fairly certain the blood had been cleaned away enough, he brought out his small sachet of kingsfoil. Nár sniffed at it, then let out a quick breath and shrunk back, as if she had smelled something foul.

He smiled faintly at her, then his eyes lost focus for a moment and he tilted off to the the side. He straightened his back and blinked a few times to clear his vision; then he again lifted his hand to his own head. The scar at the base of his skull seemed soft to him, and when he pressed his fingertip harder against it, small shocks of pain like the tingling of a sleeping limb radiated outward from it and around the sides of his head.

_...No... not now.._

Whatever else he did, he knew that he had to at least finish treating Nár's wound before he could go senseless; he had to be certain that she would be well enough to watch over him if he fell into a sudden sleep. And so, he lifted his weakened left hand and held open the wolf's wound to allow the kingsfoil better entry. More black blood came trickling out, and Fíli picked up a clean bandage and again patted the gash, then he pressed the fabric into the cut itself to soak up all he could.

When he withdrew the bandage, however, it stuck to her raw flesh and opened the wound a bit more. Nár whimpered, and Fíli pursed his lips, hoping that he had not hurt her too badly; but as he leaned close to see what damage he had done, the trickle became a flow - then the black blood began to pulse out with each beat of the animal's heart.


	22. The Choice Of Ways

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

**The Choice Of Ways**

**Fili struggles to make sense of the black blood - but he cannot do so before he feels himself beginning to fall.**

* * *

Fíli touched the freshly-flowing blood on Nár's neck, then rubbed it between his fingers. It felt almost _right_, it felt almost like _proper_ blood - it was not as thick and sticky as the warg blood elsewhere on her fur. It _must_ have been just a trick of the light that was making it appear black.

He wiped at the gash again, then held the cloth near to the fire and examined it; and though it did seem at least a bit redder close to the flames, he could not be certain that was not just the firelight reflecting off of it. When he brought the bandage near to his face for a better look, though, the smell that rose from it was overbearing and distinct, and he threw the cloth into the fire, wrinkling his nose disgustedly at the foul odor.

The wolf lifted her head slightly before resting it again on his lap, and Fíli's right hand began to shake and his left arm ached as it tensed. After gathering his thoughts and steeling his nerve, he slid his hand under Nár's chin, then cautiously pulled open her mouth and lifted her lip. Sharp, slightly-curved teeth came into view along her top and bottom jaws - strong, thin, vicious teeth; made for tearing and rending, and holding tightly to prey so that it could not escape once it had been gotten hold of. _Warg_ teeth.

Fíli shoved Nár off of his lap and slid away from her, glaring at the animal as she stared back at him with large, soulful eyes. This didn't make sense. Wargs were, without exception, large and heavily-muscled and solid. When they looked at you, you could tell that they were wondering what your blood tasted like, and they were ever inclined to satisfy that curiosity.

Nár wasn't anything like that. She was thin and scruffy and short, with a small muzzle and drooping ears and a thoughtful expression. But then, what if that was just what young wargs looked like? He had never seen one before that wasn't fully-grown, and she might just be a pup.

If she _was_ a warg, though, then why would Legolas have let her come along with him? Why would he have _encouraged_ it? Was it just some kind of sad Elven joke? Had he watched them from the trees as they made their way west along the trail, laughing silently to himself and wondering how long it would take the Dwarf to discover what an Elf likely found so obvious?

The flashing lights returned to the edge of Fíli's vision, and his mind began to swim; and he grimaced and pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, though he did not look away from Nár. She tilted her head, then stood and took a painful step towards him; but when he slid back more, she stopped and held out her injured paw.

"Go..." he said, waving her away. "Leave..."

Nár let out a quick bark and Fíli recoiled; then the animal whined softly before beginning to limp around in circles in front of him.

"What are you doing?" he asked, curling his quivering fingers into a fist. "I told you to _leave_..."

But Nár paid him no heed, and he kept his eyes on her as he inched closer to the fire. Whatever the animal was, whatever help she had given him thus far, he could no longer believe that she would not do him harm somewhere along the Road. He needed her gone, far away from him; he did not want to _hurt_ her, but neither did he want her any longer by his side. And so he grabbed the cool end of a burning branch, then stood up as straight as he could manage and shook it at the animal; but still, she neither moved away nor stopped turning in circles.

"Get out of here!" he yelled, throwing the stick hard in her direction.

Although he had been trying to miss Nár only slightly-so to startle her off-the branch went much wider than he had intended, and it hit the trunk of a nearby tree, shattering the burning end and sending embers falling to the Forest floor. Despite his unsteadiness and confusion, Fíli ran over and stomped on and around the stick so that it would not catch the leaves alight, then he picked up what was left of the branch and gripped it tightly as he made his way back to the campfire.

He looked down into the flames, and past the growing flashes at the edges of his vision, he saw Nár at last stop walking around. She barked again, then whimpered softly; and Fíli threw the stick into the fire, then shut his eyes and rested his hand on the square pommel of his sword.

"Please..." he said past clenched teeth, "...just _go_."

Nár growled, and Fíli's eyes flew open; and even as his ears started to hum and the flashing moved closer to the center of his vision, he began to draw the weapon out of its scabbard, intent on chasing her away. But the blade was still coated with warg blood and it stuck as he withdrew it; then his already shaky grip failed and the sword fell to the ground.

He stumbled to the side, throwing out his hands in an attempt to regain his balance; and the animal barked again, then again. The sound seemed impossibly loud, and Fíli's head began to throb even worse, so he pressed his palms to his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. His thoughts began to shift and dash, and the ground felt like it was moving beneath him. Suddenly, Nár stopped barking, then began pawing at his leg; and Fíli opened his eyes and leaned slightly towards the fire.

"...Get off..." he said, reaching down and trying to push her away. "...Go... I need... I need to..."

Something was wrong - he wanted her to leave, he wanted her to go away, he did not want her to be there. But why? He was angry, he was frightened. _Why?_

The smell of smoke filled his nose and he breathed out, trying to clear it away, and at once his legs gave way beneath him - and as he landed hard on his knees, he felt Nár sink her teeth into his right arm.

_...No..._

No, this wasn't happening. This _couldn't_ be happening. Why would she do this? He pulled back, but she did not let go.

"...Nár... stop..." he said, his voice distant in his own ears.

He looked down at the wolf and saw blood on her neck. _Black_ blood. Why was it black? Why was she attacking him?

_...A warg... she's..._

Nár bit down harder and tugged on his arm, and he reached over with his weakened left hand and pushed feebly against her bloody head.

"...Let go..."

The lights before his eyes flared up, then the world below him seemed to fall away as his strength gave out. Pain shot through his left arm and into his wrist and fingers, and in a far-off corner of his mind he realized that he must have landed on his injured elbow. But all of the thoughts he could focus-as shaky as that focus was-were on his right arm, where the animal was sinking its teeth into his skin...

...

_"Shoot it, Kíli!" Thorin cried out. "Kill it!"_

_Fíli looked on as his brother and uncle both loosed their arrows. The warg that had been bounding at them howled in pain, then fell to the ground; and Fíli jumped to his feet and ran to it, slicing open its throat. Black blood gushed from the wound, and the beast jerked and gurgled, then its muscles relaxed in death. _

_A moment later, Kíli and Thorin walked over and looked down at the creature. Only one arrow had hit the beast; and though they all knew who had missed, Thorin gave Kíli only the slightest of disapproving glances before removing his own arrow from the dead warg's foreleg._

_"Suppose that's the only one?" asked Fíli, drawing his sword over the animal's fur so to wipe its blood off of the blade. _

_Kíli looked around warily. "Wargs travel in packs, don't they?"_

_"Most of the time," said Thorin. "But not always. From the tracks and the farmers' reports, I'd say this one was a lone hunter."_

_Fíli nudged the dead beast with his toe. "I don't know, Uncle. Considering the number of goats the farmers said were killed..."_

_"One warg can kill dozens of goats in a night," Thorin interrupted. "Even if it is not hungry."_

_"Why would it kill something it doesn't intend to eat?" asked Kíli._

_"Do not confuse wargs with wolves," said Thorin. "A warg will hunt for sport more often than for food. And if you are fortunate, it will not make better sport of you by biting you till you bleed, then letting you go so that it might track you down later when you think you are safe. A warg will never truly let you escape. It will always track you, it will always find you, and it will always kill you - so you must never leave one alive, especially if it has had the scent of your blood."_

...

Fíli's head ached and his left arm was stiff and searing when he awoke; and though he could not recall the moment when he had lost consciousness, he was surprised that he had woken at all. He thought that Nár would have killed him when she'd had the chance, that she would have finished him off while he had been helpless. But perhaps that was because she wanted to play with him, because she wanted to make better sport of him. Perhaps she was still there, waiting for him to wake so that she might chase him off into the darkness of the trees, so to hunt him down later.

He kept his eyes shut and lay still as he listened; and though he could hear nothing around him-not even the crackle of the fire-there was a tugging at the back of his mind, a pull telling him that he was not alone. It was not a panicked sense, it was not a fear - he was being _watched_, not hunted; but still, he jumped when he heard a voice speak up from somewhere nearby.

"You are awake?"

Fíli ran his tongue over his dry lips and opened his eyes, then he watched as his breath turned to fog and drifted up in the still air. There was light beyond the highest of the branches, and it filtered down weakly through the gnarled limbs, giving the Wood a gray, cold feeling. He stared up at it for a few seconds, then craned his aching neck to look to where the fair-haired Elf crouched just beyond the remains of the campfire.

"Did you kill it?" asked Fíli.

Legolas drew his eyebrows together. "Did I kill _what_?"

"The _warg_. Is it dead?"

The Elf nodded sightly. "It is, though not by my hand," he said, turning Fíli's boot-knife over in his palm and holding it up. "You left this in its throat. You did well. It is no small feat to kill a warg in the Forest darkness."

Fíli tightened his jaw. "I'm not talking about _that_ one..." he began, but an ache between his eyes silenced him. After the pain eased, he tried to sit up, but his strength failed him, and so he remained on his back and resumed staring up at the trees. "The _other_ one."

"There was no other warg here last night," said Legolas, sliding his hand around Fíli's arm and pulling him to sitting. "I saw signs of only one."

The Dwarf shook off his grip and looked down to where he had felt teeth cutting into him not so long ago. His sleeve was already pulled up, and though there were many small bruises marring his arm, the skin there was intact. He flexed his hand and rotated his wrist, and found that none of his motion was reduced, though the muscles of that arm ached mightily.

His left arm, though, felt much worse; and the breath caught in his throat when he saw that it was completely bandaged from fingertip to elbow. He tried to lift it, but shocks of pain travelled from his wrist to his shoulder, and he gritted his teeth against it as beads of sweat began to form on his brow.

"You know the one I'm speaking of," he said, looking back to the Elf. "The one you sent with me. My _guide_."

Legolas narrowed his eyes. "She is not a warg."

Fíli held up his right arm; but he said nothing, and Legolas went on.

"A warg would have bitten you through to the bone."

"She _attacked_ me. Whether or not she managed to..."

"Nár was trying to _save_ you," Legolas broke in. "She knew that something was wrong, she knew that you were falling. She tried to pull you back from the fire, but she could not do so before your left arm was already burned."

Fíli looked at the dead campfire, understanding now where the pain in his bandaged limb had come from - though he was not convinced that the animal had been trying to _save_ him from it. Then Legolas's words repeated in his mind and he turned to him once more.

"I thought you said that she had no name. Why did you call her _Nár_?"

Legolas pursed his lips and held the boot-knife out to Fíli. "She... _likes_ the name."

"She told you that, did she?" the Dwarf asked, snatching the knife from Legolas and sliding it into his leg-sheath. "Did she also tell you that she has black blood?"

"I already knew."

"And you couldn't have bothered telling _me_?"

Legolas did not answer, and Fíli pressed his unbound hand to his throbbing brow.

"Have you been following me since the River?" he asked, lowering his voice.

"No," said Legolas as he moved back a bit and kneeled on the road-stones. "I was some few miles away when I heard howling, though I did not know for certain that it was you that the warg was howling at. In fact, I thought that you would be much farther along by now."

Fíli let out derisive breath, thinking that Legolas might not have been in such a hurry to get there if he _had_ known. "Not all folk can move as swiftly as your own can in the Wood," he said, then he turned his eyes to the bite-marks on his arm.

A silence of several minutes followed; and when Fíli lifted his face again, he saw that Nár had reappeared and was now sitting by the Elf's side. Legolas scratched the animal under the chin and whispered something to her, and Nár looked over at the Dwarf and barked. Fíli gasped and fell back, setting his left hand down on the ground hard; then pain shot up through his arm and he fell to the side, clutching protectively at his burned limb.

Legolas grabbed his arm once more; but Fíli this time shoved him away roughly and kicked at his legs. The Elf moved swiftly out of the way and Fíli's foot met air, jarring his back and shoulder, and sending a jolt up from his neck and into the base of his skull. He let go of his left arm and grabbed at the back of his head, digging his fingernails into the skin around his healed-over wound, then he rolled to his knees and glared at Legolas.

"Don't touch me..." he said through his teeth.

The Elf crouched just in front of Fíli and fixed him with a curious stare. "You are not well."

"A warg tried to eat me last night," said Fíli, glancing at Nár. "_Two_ wargs. And I was pushed into a fire... so, _no_, I'm _not_ well. But I'll recover."

"That is not what I'm speaking of. Your wounds from the Battle still remain. Why did you not stay at the Mountain for healing?"

Heat rose in Fíli's chest and he sat back onto the ground. "That is none of your concern."

"Perhaps not," said Legolas. "But I _am_ within my rights to question why you are in the Forest at all."

Fíli looked over towards his belongings, then pulled his pack onto his lap and picked the wine out of the bunch of skins; and after fidgeting with the straps for a moment, he managed to get it unfastened. He uncorked it and sniffed at the contents, then took a quick drink. Though he had already tasted it once, its strength still surprised him, and he had to clear his throat before speaking.

"Then you may question it, if you wish," he said, his voice suddenly rough. "But unless you plan on keeping me here indefinitely, then perhaps you should just let me be on my way."

"It is doubtful that you would make it out of the Forest on your own."

"That is _also_ none of your concern."

"Anything that happens within Mirkwood is my concern," said Legolas. "And since you clearly did not know what dangers lay here before trying to make your way through, I have twice had to save you from your own ignorance and foolishness."

Fíli exhaled sharply. "I never asked you to do so."

"You _couldn't_ have. You were unconscious both times, and I, perhaps wrongly, assumed that you wanted to go on living." The Elf tilted his chin up. "Or are you saying that you would rather have died?"

For a brief, frightening moment, Fíli did not know how to answer that question; then he took another drink of wine and shrugged. "No, I don't suppose I _would_ have," he said. "But if will make you feel any better, you needn't worry what becomes of me from here on - and I give you my word that I will not find you personally responsible if I do not make it out of the Forest alive."

Legolas turned to the side, looking along the trail for a moment before returning his attention to Fíli. "I _cannot_ allow that," he said. "But now that you are, apparently, awake and aware, I _will_ give you a choice of paths."

The fingers on Fíli's left hand tried to curl themselves into a fist, but were stopped by the tight bandage wrapped around them. Pain shot up his arm and he bit down against it, then he took a mouthful of wine before nodding stiffly.

"I'm listening."

"Turn around and go back the way you came," said Legolas. "Return to Erebor..."

"And my second choice?" interrupted Fíli, not even giving the first option a moment to settle in his mind.

Legolas's eyes widened a touch, as if he had not expected a return to the Lonely Mountain to be so easily dismissed; but he quickly straightened his expression and went on.

"Come with me to the Palace," he said. "To be healed by my people."

Fíli let out a brief, humorless laugh. "I've spent quite enough time there already," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Whatever our past grievances might have been, your people and mine are now allied," said Legolas. "When you are well, you will be allowed to leave on your own. Without escort."

"So I would be a _guest_ of the Wood-elves, rather than a _prisoner_ this time?" asked Fíli. "I'd be nothing more than a _patient_?"

Legolas nodded, but said nothing; and Fíli took another long drink of the wine.

Healing at Thranduil's Palace, he knew, _would_ be the better option under the circumstances; but though the Elves _were_ skilled healers, he had little desire to spend more time around them than was absolutely necessary. Then, there was also the very real chance that they would send word to Erebor about his survival, and he would be obligated to return to the Mountain and explain why he had left in the first place.

Worse, the Arkenstone would still be waiting for him there; and although it was likely in Thorin's tomb by now, he was certain he would not be able to resist going to it, touching it, claiming it. He shuddered at the thought, and his neck began to ache as the muscles in it tensed.

"I choose neither," he said at last. "Both of those paths would take me east, and my destination lies in the west. I will not turn from it, for healing or otherwise."

Legolas stared at him for several seconds before speaking up. "That being the case, there is one other option."

"I can't wait to hear it," said Fíli flatly, lifting the wine-skin again.

"You _will_ go west, as you wish to, but you will not go alone."

A noise made its way out of Fíli's throat, though he himself could not tell if it was a laugh or a cough, or if he had choked on the wine.

"No," he said, looking at Nár. "I have traveled far enough already with that..."

"I was not speaking of sending _her_ with you," said Legolas. "Though if she chose to go along with us, I would not stop her from doing so."

"_Us_?" asked Fíli, widening his eyes; then he shook his head so hard that he grew dizzy and tilted off to the side. "No," he said, righting himself. "I'll not be going anywhere with you. With _either_ of you."

"It would only be as far as the edge of Mirkwood," the Elf told him. "I would see you safely to the Wilderland, and you may die _there_, if you wish."

Fíli squeezed the wine-skin tightly as he lifted it to his lips, and this time he did not stop drinking until it was empty. He threw it to the ground and thrust his hand into his food-sack, bringing out some salted meat; then he began eating it slowly and deliberately as the Elf watched on and waited for an answer that Fíli was in no hurry to give.

It was clear that Legolas was not going to let him go on alone - why ever that may be. And though the Elf _had_ helped him twice already, he had also allowed a warg to travel with him through the Wood. Either way, Fíli was certain that there was no real concern on Legolas's part when he had given his aid. He had likely helped him simply because he had _been_ there, and would have felt guilty if he had _not_ done so.

_Did_ Elves feel guilt? Fíli doubted it, really. If Legolas had not gotten there in time enough to help him-if he had come across the Dwarf's _dead_ body-then he would have not cared at all, just as he had not been concerned enough for Fíli and Kíli on the battlefield to see for _himself_ if they still lived.

From the corner of his eye, Fíli saw Legolas pick up the wine-skin; then he turned and looked on directly as the Elf sniffed at its open mouth.

"Where did you get this?" asked Legolas, narrowing his eyes.

Fíli shrugged. "From a friend," he said, waving the dried meat at Legolas. "You know what a _friend_ is, I assume?"

Legolas's jaw tightened, and he smelled the wine-skin once more. "This is from my father's private cellars," he said. "It is reserved for his table, alone. Unless your _friend_ is an Elf of high standing, you should not have it."

Fíli swallowed the tough meat and forced back a smile. Sigrid was certainly no less of a smuggler than her father if she had managed to liberate the Elvenking's best wine from his tent. The Dwarf straightened his expression and wiped his mouth again; and at once his eyes lost focus and he found that he had to blink hard to bring them clear.

"Send the vintner my compliments," he said, grabbing the skin and throwing it next to his pack.

Legolas lowered his hand. "Have you made your decision?"

"You seem determined that I should go with you, in any case," said Fíli. "Why would that be, I wonder, when you have already made it quite clear that you do not care for my kind?"

"You should, perhaps, consider the difference between a _friend_ and an _ally_. It is fortunate for you that I don't have to like you to offer you my help."

"Or to force it on me. And even then, you only do so when it suits you."

"Do you think it _suited me_ to twice come to your aid, when your troubles were of your own making?"

Fíli did not answer, and he watched on as Legolas's stare shifted into a glare. He was soon unable to hold his gaze, though, and so he turned aside and began studying the textured bark of a nearby tree - but it was quite hard for him to keep both his eyes and his thoughts from losing focus.

"Your decision?" asked Legolas unexpectedly.

Fíli jumped, then looked into the Elf''s keen eyes for a second before turning his face down and knocking on the road-stones with his knuckles. "How long should it take to get to get to the western edge of the Forest?"

"A little less than a fortnight, perhaps. Though I cannot say for certain, given your current state."

"That is the way I will be going," said Fíli. "If you choose to go along, then I suppose there's nothing I can do to stop you." He glanced at Nár before turning to Legolas once more. "Though I wonder why I should trust you at all when you sent a warg with me last time."

Legolas nodded stiffly, then stood. "Then we will leave after you have had a rest."

"I've had plenty of rest already." Fíli rose to standing, himself, though his knees felt weak underneath him. "And the sooner I'm out of your company, the better I'll be."

He stumbled a bit to the side, then planted both of his feet as firmly as he could manage on the ground; and after a feeble attempt at straightening himself up, he leaned over to grab his pack. His fingers clenched shut when he thought they were around the strap, but when he opened his hand he saw that it was empty. He flexed his fingers, rotated his neck, tightened his jaw, and leaned over again - this time pitching towards the dead fire and stopping himself just before he could trip over the charred wood.

"Are you alright?" asked Legolas, though there seemed to be less concern than humor in his voice.

Fíli looked up quickly and his eyes went blurry again. Panic and confusion came over him and he placed his fingers on the back of his head, fearing that the wound was once more giving him trouble. But his head drooped and he began to lean forward as a sleepiness began to set in; and at once a thought came to him and he drew his hand around to his face and closed his eyes.

"About that wine...?" he asked past his palm.

"A rare, heady red from the Dorwinion region of Rhûn," said Legolas. "And you should, perhaps, sit down before you fall down."


	23. Bad Blood

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

**Bad Blood**

**Although Fíli wishes for the silence between himself and Legolas to last until the after effects of the potent wine have worn off, the two of them fall into a vitriolic conversation about the tensions between their peoples.**

* * *

Fíli had always enjoyed Elvish wine; and indeed, so did many of his kin. The sweet red and white varieties from the vineyards of Lindon were actually quite common on Dwarf tables all up and down the range of the Blue Mountains, and were among the few things made by Elf hands that his uncle had ever allowed in their halls - though Thorin had claimed that was only because there were no decent _Dwarf_ vintners in the region, and that the grapes grown by Men were unpalatable even _before_ fermentation.

But while Fíli had many times drained entire bottles of the light and refreshing Lindon wine without so much as a blink of tiredness afterwards, the wine of Dorwinion had hit him faster and harder than any ale or spirit made by Dwarves or Men ever had. In fact, despite Legolas's claim of it having come from Thranduil's cellars, Fíli wasn't sure that it was of Elvish make at all.

He didn't know how long he'd slept after emptying the wine-skin; and though his dreams had not been unpleasant, when he awoke, his stomach would not settle and it felt as if his head rather than his arm had gone into the fire. Following that slow and shaky awakening, the gathering of his belongings and the beginning of his trek westwards with Legolas and Nár had been a blur - and even now, an hour into the day's journey, he was not feeling much better.

Fortunately, no words had yet passed between the travelers, and Fíli hoped that the silence would last for at least however long it took for both his vision and his thoughts to clear; and even though there was no harsh sunlight in the Forest, still he lowered his cloak-hood over his face to block out what little light there _was_. After a while, however, his lids began to droop and his feet started dragging; and when he shut his eyes for a moment against the pounding in his head, the toe of his boot caught on something on the path and he stumbled forward.

"Do you need a rest?" asked Legolas flatly.

"No, I don't need a _rest_," said Fíli, righting himself. "I just need to get out of this place. It's making me ill."

"That is more likely the wine. The Forest itself is healing."

Fíli let out a small grunt. "That may be so," he said, "but even if the _trees_ are feeling a bit better, there's still naught here but spiders and goblins and black water and _Elves_." He turned his attention to the animal walking between them. "And _wargs_."

"I told you, Nár is not a warg."

"Don't call her that," snapped Fíli. "She doesn't deserve the name."

"And why is that? Did it belong to somebody significant?"

Fíli flexed the fingers on his right hand, then pressed his slung left arm against his side. "You might not consider _any_ Dwarf significant..." His voice caught in his throat, and he gritted his teeth against the pain in both his head and his arm before going on. "But the _real_ Nár was a loyal friend of my great-grandfather."

"And you saw that same loyalty in the wolf?"

"The _warg_," said Fíli, looking up at Legolas. "There is a clear distinction between the two that I am sure you were well aware of before you sent her with me."

Legolas nodded slightly. "Her father's father _was_ a warg," he said. "However, her father's mother was a great wolf of the Forest."

"And her mother?" pressed Fíli. "Another warg?"

"A hound of the Lake."

Fíli turned his face down and began studying the black-caked scruff on the animal's neck. "So she's just a mixed-breed with bad blood," he said; then he shook his head and looked forward once more. "It doesn't matter how much wolf or hound she has in her, part of her is still a warg. When she grows older she'll show that side of herself."

"She is _already_ grown," said Legolas. "I have known her for sixty-four years, and in that time, she has never shown any sign of having _bad blood_. Further, Elves cannot speak to the evil creatures of the world. If Nár was one of them, I would not understand what she has to say."

"That doesn't mean that she is incapable of doing evil _things_," said Fíli - though he was somewhat shocked to learn that the animal was so old. "I'm sure her grandfather killed plenty of..."

"She is not her grandfather," Legolas cut him off. "And that you would hate _her_ for what _he_ might have done speaks much for your way of thinking."

Fíli glared at Legolas for a few seconds before returning his attention to the path ahead. "And is it so different from your own reasons for hating the Dwarves?"

"I do not hate Dwarves," said Legolas, though perhaps a bit too quickly. "If I did, I would have left you to the Forest."

"Which was what I asked of you in the first place. I would have been quite happy going it alone."

"And you would have _died_."

"And I don't believe you would have mourned me if I had come to that end."

From the corner of his eye, Fíli saw Legolas's hand curl into a loose fist.

"Though it _is_ true that I have little to do with Dwarves if I can help it," the Elf said after a moment, "I am not going to allow one to die within my father's kingdom. Especially one that fought by my side in battle."

"You weren't _by my side_," said Fíli, his ire rising. "The only person that stayed by my side the whole time was my own brother, and he _died_ there. Of _your_ kind, your father, for all his high-handedness, fought by our sides until _you_ called him away. _Tauriel_ fought by our sides until..."

"I did not know that my father was with you when I sent for him," Legolas interrupted. "And lest you believe that we had wholly abandoned your kind, we were helping _Lord Dáin_ defend Ravenhill against the advancing orc forces while _you_ were fighting the rabble on the field."

"That _rabble on the field_ included Azog the Defiler," said Fíli, spitting out the name like a curse. "You were defending where the strength of the enemy wasn't gathered, and that strength took the lives of my kin." His head began to throb again and he squinted against it, then he gritted his teeth when he saw a small flash of light at the edge of his vision. "Though I suppose those lives meant little enough to you, since you threatened to take them yourself when we first met you in the Forest."

"You were _trespassing_ in the Forest. And yet we _still_ defended you against the spiders, if you recall."

"Most were dead by our own hands before you arrived."

"Then you are clearly unaware of how many we killed before making ourselves known to you. And perhaps you also forget that we fought for your safety at the water-gate and on the river, and afterwards fended off the orcs' attack in Esgaroth."

"You fought the orcs on the river because _you_ were in danger from them, as well... not for the sake of _my_ people."

Between them, the wolf began to whine slightly; and a moment later, a pain shot through Fíli's head. He drew in a quick breath through his teeth; then he cleared his throat and adjusted his pack straps over his sore shoulders before going on.

"And as for you aiding us in Bard's home... I will admit that it was _admirable_ of you. Though afterwards, you couldn't have bothered to stay to help further, though it was clear my brother wouldn't have survived his wound without healing. Tauriel, at least, did what she could for him, but _you_ left and did not return until after Laketown had been burned to the water."

"You are speaking of things that you do not understand," said Legolas indignantly.

"And though Tauriel also gave us what aid she could in the Battle, I saw nothing more of _you_ until it was nearly over," continued Fíli, looking up at him. "And even _then_, my brother and I mattered little enough to you that you couldn't have yourself taken a moment to search for our heartbeats or feel for our breath instead of leaving it to the shaky hands of an old and exhausted Lake-woman."

The Elf's eyes widened. "You were aware?"

"I was _very_ aware," said Fíli, his voice uneven. "And in pain, whether or not that means anything to you."

Legolas slowed his pace, then he glanced at Fíli for a moment before turning his eyes again to the path ahead.

"Had I known..."

"Had you known _what_?" Fíli broke in. "_Had you known_ that I was alive, or _had you known_ that I was aware...?" He felt something brush against his hand and he looked down to see Nár pressing her head against him. He pushed the animal away, and she instead sidled up to Legolas. "...Or _had you known _that I was in pain? I am sure you would have kept about your business, in any case."

"My _business_ involved hunting down the fleeing wargs and orcs," the Elf said, scratching the wolf on the top of the head. "I could not have checked every body I saw on the field. Or would you have preferred that I had done so, and left the retreating enemy to kill the refugees on the lakeshore?"

Fíli squeezed his eyes shut, remembering what Sigrid had said about orcs attacking the Lake-men's camp. He wondered now how many fewer survivors there would be if Legolas and others like him had not run the enemy down, or if the Elves had not given them food and helped them to build shelter against the oncoming winter.

Then, despite himself, he thought more bitterly about how Thranduil had refused the Dwarves of Erebor the same aid when Smaug first attacked - and additionally, about the _Men_ who had turned Fíli and the others away when they had come begging for help in healing Kíli's leg.

"Oh, yes... your father was _very_ quick to give _them_ aid..." he said, then he cringed at his own bitter words and tone.

"Which is something that your own people were unwilling to do," Legolas countered, "though it was _your_ actions that led to Esgaroth burning in the first place."

"Except Thranduil didn't help them out of _kindness_," said Fíli, regaining his resolve. "He did so because he wanted the treasure in our mountain, and allying himself with the homeless and desperate Lake-men was the easiest way to get to it. Once their usefulness has been outlived, your father will cut them loose. He'll turn his back on them, just as he did Thrór's people when the dragon came."

The muscles in Legolas's neck tensed, and he let out a quick breath through his nose before speaking up. "We could not have fought Smaug with any hope of our own survival," he said, apparently choosing not to address Fíli's claim that Thranduil would betray the Lake-men. "We were too few and the dragon was too powerful."

"_Too powerful_, and yet one _Man_ killed him with a single arrow while his world burned around him. And I was not speaking about you refusing to fight Smaug, but about you turning the Dwarves away after he was already holed up in the Mountain."

"And where were we supposed to find quarters for all of your displaced kin?" asked Legolas.

"I have seen the size of your _palace_, and I am sure some accommodations could have been made, if only for a while." Fíli felt a slight tremble in his chest and he pressed his hand to it before going on. "But even if you couldn't have housed those people that you had once considered your friends, you could at least have given them some small amount of food, or allowed them safe passage under your trees. Though I cannot say that I am surprised that you _didn't_, since even now you wouldn't let as few as _thirteen_ Dwarves pass freely through the Wood."

"Would _you_ have taken kindly to a troop of Elves passing through your mines and tunnels uninvited?"

"Our mines and tunnels don't extend six hundred miles and divide a region in two," said Fíli. "What's more, they were built by our own hands over centuries, whereas your people simply saw a wildwood and claimed it as their own. And now you would have travelers take the long way south through the Brown Lands, or chance going north through the Grey Mountains and the Withered Heath rather than allowing them a shorter, safer passage through Mirkwood - even when those travelers pose no threat to you."

"Our restrictions are not only for the protection of our own people," said the Elf. "The Forest is not a safe place for those who are unused to its dangers, as _you_ should well understand by now."

"And was _imprisoning_ us also for our safety? Was it better for us than providing an escort to the eastern border of your lands?"

"In fact, you would have been in much less danger if you had stayed where we had put you."

"And all it would have cost us was our freedom."

Legolas stopped walking suddenly and glared down at Fíli. "And the cost of your escape was war and death," he said, raising his voice to nearly a yell.

The Elf's outburst shocked Fíli, who stepped back and instinctively gripped the hilt of his sword. Between them, Nár pawed at the ground, and Legolas shook his head almost apologetically at her; then his bright blue eyes darted back and forth for a moment before he looked to Fíli and continued speaking, though in a more subdued tone.

"Your kind claim to have a love of beautiful things in your pursuit of gold and jewels," he said, "but the _beauty_ that you find all too often draws evil to your doorstep - as it did in Erebor, as it did in Moria. And yet you never claim responsibility, and you never make amends to those whose lives are ruined because of your actions, because of your _greed_."

For a frightening instant, Fíli saw the Arkenstone pulsing brilliantly in his memory; but he forced away the image and removed his hand from his sword, then he curled his fingers into a defiant fist at his side.

"You consider your own people to be an evil, then?" he asked; and when Legolas shot him a fiery look, Fíli let out a satisfied breath. "I will say that I don't know history as _you_ might tell it, but _we_ were always taught that the Elves settled outside of Khazad-dûm because they wanted the mithril and gems that the Dwarves there were bringing out of the mines. Is that not true?"

Legolas focussed on some point past Fíli for a moment; then he again began walking, with the wolf by his side. "It _is_ true," he said. "But the Elves of Eregion were not of my kindred."

"Whether or not they were of your kindred makes no difference," said Fíli, falling into step beside him and Nár. "The Elves have _always_ come baying at our gates, seeking some way to take for themselves what _our_ mining has brought to light. The wealth of the Dwarves draws your people to our doorstep as readily as it drew Smaug; and once that wealth is no longer in our hands, you want nothing more to do with us."

He stopped speaking for a moment to give Legolas a chance to reply - a chance to defend his kind; but the Elf said nothing, and Fíli spoke up again.

"You call _us_ greedy," he said, "but Thorin told us how Thranduil offered us freedom from your dungeons only if we ransomed ourselves with jewels from the Mountain. He would have kept us locked up for a hundred years for want of a _necklace_."

The Elf looked quickly over at him; then he lowered his head as he turned forward once more. "I cannot speak for my father," he said after a time; and though the expectation of more wanting to be said hung on the air, he did not go on.

"Then speak for _yourself_," said Fíli. "You may have aided us against the spiders and orcs, but you also threatened to put an arrow through my uncle's head, took away our belongings, imprisoned us without cause, and would have left my brother to die in Laketown had one of your _better_ kin not chosen on her own to stay behind and heal him. You cannot speak for your father, but you _are_ your father's son, Legolas_ Thranduilion_. You are _just_ like him."

Legolas narrowed his eyes, but said nothing; though Nár started whining softly. Fíli stared hard at her until she quieted herself and stepped a little away from him, then he turned his attention back to the path ahead.

A deep silence fell between the travelers, and few minutes further on, Fíli's mind began to swim and his stomach started to churn. He willed the sensations down, hoping that they were lingering effects from the wine; but for a brief moment, he thought he saw sunlight filtering down from the trees ahead of them. He turned his face up, searching for the beam; but it flared and flashed out, and Fíli stumbled to the side.

Nár moved near to him again growled softly; but the Dwarf did not this time pay her any heed, and instead focussed on the dim road ahead. Still, from the edge of his vision, he saw Legolas glance down at the animal; then, at length, the Elf spoke up.

"The necklace you mentioned was made of mithril and adamant by the Elves of Eregion before Moria fell," he said, though it almost sounded as if he were speaking to himself. "It was given to a Lady of the Forest when this realm was still known as the _Greenwood_, and she had it when..."

His voice trailed off, and Fíli studied his distant expression. He appeared lost, somehow. _Sad_, even. It was an odd thing to see, and it made Fíli falter back. Legolas seemed to notice his reaction, and he straightened both his expression and his shoulders as he continued.

"It was _taken_ from her," he said. "And when it was recovered many centuries later, the jewelers of Erebor were commissioned in good faith to repair and restore it. However, when Thrór learned of its provenance, he demanded four-times the agreed-upon price for its return - and he would not be moved on the matter, even to maintain the good will of our people. He _taunted_ my father, even, by allowing him to come within reach of the necklace before coldly denying it to him." The Elf turned to face Fíli, the sadness in his eyes now replaced with determination. "So please, tell me _now_ that there was no greed on your great-grandfather's part."

Fíli felt a pang of shame for Thrór's actions, but still he hardened his words as he spoke. "So the Dwarves of the past made mistakes, and now their sons' sons must pay for them?" he asked; then he cringed at how alike that had sounded to Legolas's comment about Nár's ancestry.

"And how is that any different from the way you feel about the Elves?" asked Legolas, likewise echoing _Fíli's_ earlier words. "You condemn us _all_ for things that were done hundreds of years ago, by different folk in different lands."

"The difference is that the Dwarves that wronged you in the past are long dead," said Fíli defensively; though he then found himself needing to blink several times against a stinging ache behind his eyes. "While the Elves that wronged _us_ still live; and they will continue to live long after the last of my kind is gone."

There was a pause before Legolas responded. "Do you believe that Elves cannot die?"

Fíli's face began to warm. He had forgotten, for the moment, that he had seen the torn and crushed bodies of many Wood-elves on the battlefield; and that neglected memory now came back to him in a rush of guilt.

"I know you _can_ die," he said, softening his tone slightly. "But you don't live knowing that you _will_ die."

"Accidents can claim us, just as they can you," said Legolas. "We can fall in battle, we can succumb to grief..."

"But you _cannot_ get sick and you _do not_ grow old," Fíli interrupted; then he flinched as a flash like lightning cut across his vision. "Never a one of you has frozen to death for being homeless on a winter night, or wondered if you would starve before your next meal, or feared that your child would not survive its first few days. You can keep yourself safe, you can lock all dangers outside, and you will live for ages without ever needing to see the suffering of others, or to hear of their sorrows... because all that matters is that you will _outlive_..."

The words faded from Fíli's lips as he chased after a drifting memory; then Nár started panting heavily, and he watched on as she ran ahead and started turning in circles in the middle of the trail. The Dwarf squinted at her curiously, but his thoughts were drawn abruptly back to the moment by the Elf's angry voice.

"Do not presume to tell me how _my_ kind may die," he said, though his tone seemed strange, almost hollow - as if he were speaking in a distant room. "Or dare to claim that we suffer less than you because we live longer. The memories of the Elves do not fade, and our sorrows remain as clear and raw after centuries have passed as they were at the moment when they were new."

"So because of that, you find it easy to dismiss the sorrows and suffering of _my_ people?" asked Fíli; then he gasped as a warmth started spreading out from his temples and around to the back of his head. "Because our hurts _may_ fade in time, if we do not first take them to the grave?"

"I do not dismiss them," said the Elf. "But nor should you expect me to take them on myself, when I do not have the gift of being able to forget even my own."

Fíli's brow began to throb, and he heard a deep ringing in his ears; but shaking his head only made both grow worse. Then, at once, the memory that had been trying to force its way into his mind returned - and he heard Thorin boldly and clearly decrying the Elves' lack of concern for those with shorter lives than their own.

"He was right..." said Fíli, barely loud enough to even hear himself. "We are _nothing_ to you. We die so much easier than you do... and if you take any notice at all, it's brief and cold..."

The warmth and aching in his head worked its way unexpectedly down to the nape of his neck, and there it began to grow hotter and seemed to burst out the base of his skull. He threw back his hood, so to let in the cool air, then he squeezed his eyes shut as he clutched at the wound that Azog had left behind.

He grew suddenly more dizzy, and he opened his eyes when he realized that he was no longer walking. His back bowed under the weight of his pack and his knees began to weaken, and at once the burning in his mind flowed down his spine. He craned his neck as he drew his hand off the back of his head and looked at his palm, searching for the blood that he had just felt flowing from the wound.

But there was no blood there, though he could not figure out why that would be. He was bleeding; he was _sure_ of it. He'd felt the heat moving down his neck, soaking into his shirt collar. He could practically _taste_ it at the back of his throat.

Lowering his hand, he looked down at the road stones under him, then his eyes shifted to the side and he saw a pair of feet clad in light shoes. _Elf_ shoes? An animal-a _dog_ of some type-stepped into view next to the strange feet, and it started pawing at his leg and whimpering, as if it wanted something from him.

Growing even more confused, Fíli turned his face up and began to study the blond-haired stranger's features; and in a flash of broken memory, he saw the same face-streaked with black blood and framed with unkempt hair-staring down at him with eyes that were nearly hidden under sunken brows. Above the Elf, eagles wheeled and dashed in the darkened sky; then Fíli felt the cold, hard ground under his back. He tasted blood, smelled smoke, heard distant screaming and crying; then the Elf in his memory shook his head stiffly before turning away.

"...You saw us, and you did nothing..." said Fíli, fighting to make sense of what he was seeing. "...You just... you ran near, you saw two dead Dwarves... and you just kept on running..."

At once, Fíli again found himself looking into the clean, irate face that was actually before him - a face that was, for some reason, both familiar and unusual to him. He felt he should know this person-this _Elf_-but he could not remember his name; and the intensity in the stranger's bright blue eyes warned him not to ask.

But though Fíli wanted to turn away, he could not force himself to do so. The Elf's gaze was odd, unblinking, piercing, _cold_. He did not seem unkind, but _distant_; and as Fíli looked deeper into his eyes, trying to draw out the Elf's intent, he felt his legs give way beneath him and he began to fall.


	24. Concern

**Chapter Twenty-four**

**CONCERN**

**Fíli's memories are shattered, and he cannot recall where he is, how he got injured, or who his traveling companions are.  
**

* * *

In some deep part of his mind, Fíli expected the Elf to catch him as his balance failed; but another, more aware part wasn't surprised when his knees hit the ground hard. The impact jarred his back and neck, but already it felt as if every part of his body was in some kind of pain; and though he knew there must be a reason for that, he hadn't the slightest idea what that reason could be.

He fell back to sitting on the trail and pulled his legs up to his chest, then tried to wrap his arms around his knees; but his left arm was bandaged and cradled in a sling, and it burned when he tried to move it. And so he instead crossed his legs and hung his head as he tried to remember how he had gotten to this dreary and forbidding place, and why he was in the company of an odd animal and an Elf.

A pair of lightly-shoed feet stepped just into view, and Fíli looked up, studying first the satchel hanging from the Elf's shoulder, then the quiver and bow on his cloaked back. The fair-haired stranger's mouth was shut tight, his arms were folded, and he was staring wordlessly at the trail ahead. He seemed angry, incensed, _insulted._

Fíli knew that somehow he was, himself, the cause of the Elf's ire; and he turned his eyes back towards the stone path as he tried to remember _what_ he had done to bring it on. He began to shiver against the cold, and the Elf's feet shifted in his direction, then moved a single step towards him before stopping.

Who _was_ the Elf, though? _Thranduil_ was the only name that came to mind, but Fíli knew that wasn't right. Not _exactly_ right, anyway, although there _was_ an association there that he could not place. But still, the name repeated over and over in his mind, fading and reforming like an echo, until he felt his lips form the word and heard his own irresolute voice rise up.

"_Thranduil_..."

"What of him?" someone asked from nearby.

Fíli glanced up to see that the Elf was now staring down at him. His gaze was unsettling, and Fíli started to turn away again; but as he did a sting pushed around his temples and into his brow. He lifted his left hand to rub his head, and the pain in that arm redoubled as the sling tightened around it; then he drew in a quick breath through his teeth and pulled the knotted end of the sling off from around his neck, releasing his arm from its constraints.

"You should not do that," the Elf told him.

Fíli ignored him and began trying to massage away the stiffness and aching under the bandage; but the more he touched it, the more it hurt, and he felt his brow starting to dampen.

"Leave it," the Elf said, more forcefully now.

Still, Fíli paid him no heed, and he started to remove the cloth that was wrapped around his arm, so to let the cool air onto his burning skin. The pain grew, but he felt that if he stopped, it would hurt even more, and he dug his fingernails into the searing irritation just above his wrist.

All at once, the Elf kneeled and grabbed Fíli's shaking right hand, drawing it off his injured arm. "_Stop_," he commanded, tightening his grip as the Dwarf tried to pull away from him. "You will injure yourself more."

"Let me go..." said Fíli; then he looked up and silenced himself.

The Elf's jaw was set tight and his eerie blue eyes were narrowed, and it seemed almost as if he were silently scolding Fíli for hurting himself; and although Fíli did not know why he should do so, he eased his struggling. The pale fingers released his right hand and moved instead to the bandage on his left arm, and the Elf's touch was so soft that Fíli could barely feel it as he pulled the cloth aside and carefully examined the skin underneath.

A sound like whining came from off to the side, and despite Fíli's growing curiosity about his injured arm and the unexpected concern that the Elf was showing it, he turned and focussed on the strange animal next to them. It was staring at him with wide eyes, and its floppy ears were twitching almost anxiously; and when Fíli squinted at it, it lowered its head and stuck its tail between its legs as it timidly backed a few steps away.

What _was_ it? A wolf? A dog? Somehow it looked like both, but neither.

It was female, that much Fíli remembered; but there was something about her that did not sit quite right with him. He looked harder at her, wondering about the darkening of the fur on her neck, and his right arm began to throb slightly. Though he could not see his skin under his sleeve, he recalled that there were bruises there - many small bruises. The fingers on that hand curled into a fist, almost of their own will, and he felt the aching in the muscles of his arm worsen.

But they were just bruises, weren't they? They weren't _important_. His left arm, though... why was it hurting so badly? Why was the Elf so adamant that he leave it alone? Why had it been wrapped and slung?

He looked to the slender fingers that were tightening the knot that held the bandage in place. The Elf was the one that had first wrapped it, _wasn't_ he? Fíli couldn't have done it, himself. Not so tightly, nor so well. But why had it even needed treating? The more Fíli tried to recall, the more confused he became, and his mind began to swim with questions that he knew he would not be able to answer for himself.

"What happened to me?" he blurted out at last, shocking himself with the agitation in his own voice.

The fine hands stilled on his arm. "Do you not remember?"

Fíli shook his head slowly.

"You were burned," the Elf told him, his tone saying that this was something Fíli should already have known. "You fell into a fire the night before last."

A _fire_? No. No, there was more to it than that. There _had_ to have been more than a _fire_ involved. Fíli heard howling in his memory, felt rough fur in his grip - but it was a shattered remembering, hazy and incomplete, like an imagining from a story that had once been told to him, and he could not recall more than vague sensations.

The wolf whined again, then growled softly; and Fíli flexed the fingers of his right hand into a fist. The bruises on that arm were from teeth, weren't they? Animal teeth. _Warg_ teeth.

Lightning dashed in front of his vision and he jumped, then his breaths started to quicken as he looked at the Elf.

"Did I kill it?" asked Fíli. "The warg... is it..."

The words froze on his lips as his thoughts lightened; then his vision blurred and his head drooped as exhaustion set in. In his mind he heard again the growling and snarling of the warg, felt the air being forced from his lungs, smelled the beast's foul breath...

Then, somewhere past the shifting and fading thoughts, he felt his arm being released. Strong fingers curled under his chin, and his face was lifted, and he heard a distant voice speaking to him.

_"...Can you hear me?..."_

_...Yes..._ Fíli thought, barely aware that he had not given the answer aloud.

_"...Open your eyes..."_ the voice went on.

Fíli felt himself being shaken slightly, and he struggled and fought in his mind, trying pull himself away from the sleep that he was falling into. His eyelids fluttered and opened, and he found himself once more looking the Elf's uncanny eyes. Only they were closer now, and even more intent; and Fíli jerked and gasped, startled by their nearness.

The name _Thranduil_ returned suddenly to Fíli's thoughts, but still he knew it was not _right_. Not for _this_ Elf, not for the one kneeling before him. The name that he was searching for carried with it at least a little less contempt, though Fíli had not known it for nearly as long, and he was now growing desperate to find out just who this person was.

"What is your name?" he asked, his voice shaking.

For a long few seconds the Elf said nothing; then he lowered his hand from Fíli's chin. "I am _Legolas_."

Fíli flinched at the sparks on the edge of his vision. "...Legolas?" he repeated.

It felt like the first time he had ever said it, though he knew he must have done so before; and more than that, he knew that the last time he had spoken that name it had been in anger. _Legolas Thranduilion_, he had called him; and he had meant it as an insult.

_Thranduilion..._

_Son of Thranduil..._

Fíli let out a long breath. "You're his son, aren't you?" he asked, unable to stop himself. "The Elvenking's son?"

"Yes," said Legolas, his intense eyes softening. "Can you remember who _you_ are?"

The Dwarf nodded. "..._Fíli_," he said, looking up at the darkened trees. "Where are we? What is this place?"

Legolas pressed his fingertips gently to Fíli's temple, then he moved his touch to the back of his head. "This is the Forest of Mirkwood."

_Mirkwood_?

Fíli's eyes widened and his chest began to ache. He was not supposed to be here, he was supposed to be with the Company. He pushed Legolas's hand away and looked around.

"Where are they?" he asked anxiously.

"Where are _who_?"

"My Company! My kin! Where are they?"

Legolas squinted slightly. "They are in Erebor."

"_Erebor_..." Fíli began to stand. "I'm supposed to be..."

Legolas placed a hand on his shoulder, holding him down. "You need to rest."

"I _can't_," Fíli snapped, trying still to rise to his feet. "I have to..."

"What is the last thing you remember?" asked Legolas, cutting him off.

"The last..." Fíli shook his head. What kind of question was that? What did it matter? He needed to rejoin the Company; he needed to get to Erebor. If that was where they were, that was where _he_ needed to be. "I don't have time for..."

Before he could go on, his vision was once again disturbed by a fog, and he shut his eyes as all the energy seemed to drain out of him. Suddenly, it felt as if the ground had opened up below him and he was tumbling into some deep chasm; but before he could fall too far, strong hands grabbed him and pulled him back.

His cheek grew cold, and though his scalp and neck were burning, his other pains began to fade. A touch, firm and warm, landed on his brow, and he thought he heard a voice speaking strange words from somewhere far away. Gradually, he became aware of a sweet, fresh smell like honey and sage, and though the scent was not unpleasant, he felt himself jerk away from it. The touch slid off his brow, then moved to the back of his head and drew him closer to the aroma as the distant voice continued.

Fíli still did not know the words, yet somehow he felt that he was being told to listen - and so he did. Amidst the foreign speech, he thought he heard his name being spoken; then the hand left the back of his head, and when fingertips brushed lightly over his eyelids, fractured memories began to trickle in.

He remembered Tauriel healing Kili, he remembered waking up on the battlefield, he remembered Sigrid tending his wounds, he remembered the slice the goblin had left on his side. All those times, all those moments, that same scent had been there. The scent of kingsfoil, fresh or ground, steeped or torn - a refreshing, enlivening scent that brought with it the relief of both pain and fatigue. A scent that he had known since childhood, though never so well as in the few weeks that had just passed.

"Look at me." Legolas's voice was sharp and near now, speaking words that Fíli understood. "Open your eyes."

Though he did not know why, Fíli was compelled to obey; and when the world came back into focus he realized that he was lying on his side, with his cheek on the cold road stones. Legolas was on his knees, staring down at him in concentration, and all at once Fíli's memories began to come clear - from fighting the warg, to Nár biting him as he fell into the fire, to his foolishness in drinking all of the wine, and to the discord between himself and Legolas.

Fíli squeezed his eyes shut again, and the Elf's hand moved to his neck and his soft fingertips slid over the sensitive scar at the base of the Dwarf's skull; then the smell of kingsfoil grew, and Fíli opened his eyes and pulled his head back.

"...Leave it," he said weakly. "...It's over."

Legolas lifted his hand away. "_What_ is over?"

"I was just... I was confused..."

"That was not merely _confusion_."

Fíli grimaced, then let out a long, ragged sigh. "Whatever you choose to call it, it is over," he said. "Give me room now, please..."

He assumed that his voice must have been clearer and more steady, as Legolas backed away; and after a few seconds of gathering his strength, Fíli tried to lift himself up off the ground. He could not manage it very far before he fell back onto his side, though, and Legolas gripped his arm and pulled him to sitting; then the Elf stared at him for a moment, as if he feared the help would be resented. But Fíli simply nodded, and Legolas lowered his own head in response before letting go.

The Elf picked up an open jar of green ointment off the ground, then he quickly capped it and thrust it into his satchel - but still the smell of kingsfoil lingered on the air, and Fíli breathed in deeply, trying to let it fill his lungs. For an instant he felt the cloth that Balin had draped over his face billowing with the breeze and bringing with it the same fine fragrance; then the memory faded and he looked over at Legolas.

"That ointment..." he said. "What did you do to me with it?"

"I let you breathe in the scent. Nothing more."

"And the words you were speaking? I did not understand them, but..."

"They were Elvish," said Legolas; then he stared hard at Fíli, as if warning him against asking anything else.

Fíli shut his mouth and lowered his head, then he wrapped his right arm around himself as he began to shiver against the cold once more. Abruptly, the Elf stood and began making his way around the area; and soon Fíli heard the rustling of leaves and the snapping of dry branches. He turned his eyes up just as Legolas laid an armload of firewood and kindling on the ground nearby.

"It believe we have gone far enough for today," the Elf said, sitting down and drawing a flint out of his satchel.

Fíli turned aside again, and before long he heard the striking of the flint, followed the crackling of the tinder catching alight and the soft _whoosh_ of the young flames leaping into life. The cold began to push back, and the smell of smoke chased away the scent of kingsfoil in the air; and as the heat grew on Fíli's cheeks and arms, he realized how very dry his throat had become.

Struggling out of his pack, he set it on his lap and pulled one of the water-skins off his strap; and as he took a long drink of the icy water within, he heard scraping on the road stones beside him. He glanced to the side as Nár limped cautiously near. She stopped and peered at Fíli past her bushy brows before settling down between him and the Elf; and though Fíli did not want to be so close to her, he did not make a move to either reposition himself or push her away. Still, he eyed her warily for a moment before turning his attention to Legolas.

The Elf's face was passive again, though in his distant expression there seemed to be a lingering question that he had no intention of asking. The anger from earlier appeared to have left him, at least, despite the certainty that all of Fíli's vitriolic words were still fresh in his mind - though now, most of those words made little sense to Fíli, and he in fact regretted saying them.

He and Kili had grown up listening to Thorin and the other elders deriding the Elves for their coldness and cruelty; but always the brothers had their doubts, and they had decided early on to find out for themselves what the Elves were like. Once or twice they had even sought them out in the foothills of the Blue Mountains, and those that they had managed to find were, for the most part, quiet and reserved, while others were more open and merry. On the whole, though, they seemed to be good people, and nowhere near as heartless as Thorin had claimed.

But those stories still lingered in Fíli and Kíli's thoughts, and they did not really want to believe that those things that Thorin had told them were _not_ true. The tales _must_ have been true, otherwise there would not have been so much hurt and anger in his eyes and voice when he spoke of them. And so the brothers figured that even if the Elves of Ered Luin were not altogether untrustworthy, it did not mean that their eastern kin were so kind.

The Company's stop in Rivendell had further confused the matter, as their hosts there had been haughty and critical, and had even sought to stop them from continuing on their quest; but the Dwarves had at least been given a warm welcome, plenty of food, and comfortable beds to sleep in.

When they met the Elves of Mirkwood, however, the welcome had not been so warm; and though they _had_ been given plenty of food, they had also been imprisoned for no good reason and their belongings had been taken away. Even Legolas's first words to them had communicated malice and contempt; and so, the elders' distrust of the Elves had finally begun to make some sense.

Regardless, Fíli had sought to keep himself from believing that _all_ the Elves of the Woodland Realm were so cold; and Tauriel had proven that faith to be well-placed with the concern she had shown the Dwarves in general, and Kíli in particular. But then Thranduil had marched on the Mountain, and if danger had not come from another side, it was certain that the Elvenking would have attacked Erebor, himself. As it turned out, the Elves who had at first come to do battle with the Dwarves ended up fighting beside them; but before Fíli could resolve his own doubts and confusion, his brother lay dead beside him on the field.

Legolas had left them when he had seen them there, and though Fíli had managed to push the thought of him doing so out of his mind for a long while, when he again saw the Elven prince, he felt little but resentment towards him. And so Thorin's words about Elves caring nothing for any but their own had repeated over and over in Fíli's mind, until he had at last allowed that disdain to come out of his own mouth in the wake of what he had believed to be Legolas's treachery in allowing a warg to travel with him through the Forest.

Now, however, Legolas seemed to be genuinely worried about Fíli's well-being - enough so to allow him a rest and the warmth of a fire, though the Elf did not need either, himself. And he had done much more for Fíli, besides; none of which benefitted Legolas in the least. He had treated Fíli's wounds, he had provided him directions and advice, he had eased him back to consciousness, he had given him some of his own rations, and he had filled his water-skins unbidden after rescuing him from the black river.

Why would he have done any of that, if he had been as hateful and callous as the stories had said his kind were? Why would he not have just left Fíli to die, or simply walked away and allowed him to get lost in the dark expanses of Mirkwood?

Fili looked up at Legolas again. His face was still towards the fire, his eyelids were half-closed in concentration, and he did not even appear to be breathing. The Dwarf squeezed the water-skin slightly, then held it out in offer; and though he was sure Legolas could see him in his side-vision, the Elf remained motionless. Fíli lowered the skin and re-corked it, then he tapped on it with his fingertip.

"My uncle and brother," he said without giving it much thought, "where are they?"

Legolas's eyes flitted in his direction. "You should rest," he said softly. "We will speak of them later."

"I didn't mean... I just..." Fíli stammered, realizing that it must have sounded like he didn't remember Thorin and Kíli's deaths. "I just wanted to know if they were interred by the time you left the Mountain. Were they buried?"

The stiffness in Legolas's shoulders eased a bit. "They were," he said. "Their funeral was held a week after the Battle."

Fíli turned his face down. "Were they together?"

"If you are asking if their tombs are in the same chamber, then _yes_."

The breath caught in Fíli's throat. He should have been there, he knew - he should have stayed that long, at least. Sigrid had said as much, had practically _begged_ him not to leave before then; but at the time all that Fíli could think of was getting away from the Arkenstone, as far and fast as he was able.

_The Arkenstone..._

"And the tombs... they were covered?" he asked.

Legolas shifted his position, and Fíli looked over to see that he had taken his bow off his back and was examining the string. "Yes," he said, "though the lids had yet to be carved by the time I left Erebor."

For an instant, Fíli felt his fingers brushing against the King's Jewel and heard it whispering in his mind, and he jumped, clutching the water-skin tightly.

"The chamber was not yet sealed, then?"

"Lord Balin said the engraving would be done within a fortnight, so it may well be finished by now," said Legolas. "But the chamber may remain open for some time, regardless."

"Why is that?" asked Fíli, cringing at the distress in his own voice.

Several seconds of silence passed before Legolas answered. "They are waiting for _you_."

Fíli felt a jolt in his chest, and sweat began beading on his brow. "What do you mean by that?" he asked, wiping his sleeve over his forehead. "Do they expect me to return to the Mountain?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Legolas, resting his bow on his lap. "The Lords Balin and Dáin still seek to find your body and bring it back to Erebor, so that you may be laid to rest with your kin. I don't believe they will seal the chamber until all hope of that is gone."

Tears gathered in the corners of Fíli's eyes, and he turned aside as they coursed down his cheeks. He was sure that Sigrid had told Balin about his survival, but he supposed now that there was a chance he hadn't believed her. Balin had, after all, seen Fíli on the field, himself; and even if he'd hoped Sigrid was correct, he may have chosen to believe his own eyes rather than her word.

Or it could have been that he _did_ believe her, and had sent out scouts in search of the missing prince. But if they had gone towards _Southern_ Mirkwood, as Fíli had intended on making for, then they would have had no chance of finding him; and when their searching had come to nothing, Balin may have come to believe that Fíli had perished along the Road.

In any case, Fíli imagined now that the chamber would remain open forever, and the Arkenstone would be in easy reach for anyone who wished to take it. It would be as simple as pushing aside the lid to Thorin's tomb.

_Had_ the Arkenstone even been buried with Thorin, though? Perhaps Balin or Dáin had claimed it, despite what they had said of wanting nothing to do with it. Fíli himself had never even considered taking it as his own until he had heard its call - what if it had done the same to his elder kin in his absence? Perhaps it had been set back into the throne it had once crowned, and it was once again serving as a symbol of the King's right to rule.

Fíli wiped his face with the back of his hand. There was a chance, at least, that Legolas knew what had become of the Arkenstone. Maybe he had seen it in Thorin's tomb before it had been covered. Maybe he could at least give Fíli some comfort in the knowledge that neither Balin nor Dáin had possession of it.

"From what you said of speaking to Balin," he said, "I assume that _you_, at least, attended my brother and uncle's funeral..." He stopped and swallowed hard. "_My_ funeral, I suppose..."

"I did not," said Legolas.

Fíli's shoulders slumped, and he began fidgeting with the strap of his pack; then Legolas went on.

"My father was there, however."

"I didn't think he would have gone, even if he'd been invited," said Fíli, furrowing his brow.

"He was not the only Wood-elf to attend, and it was a significant gesture on your lords' part that they were allowed to do so."

"Was Tauriel there, as well?"

Legolas's expression fell. "No, she was not."

For a fleeting moment, the question of why Tauriel had not been there entered Fíli's mind; but he thought better of asking it. "So, there's peace at the Mountain, then?"

"Peace, you may call it. Or _tolerance_."

"Reluctant as it must be," said Fíli. "There still remains little love between our peoples, I'm sure." He eyed Legolas curiously. "For not having been at the funeral, you seem to know a bit about who _was_."

"It was through Lord Balin that I learned who was in attendance."

Fíli found it odd that his old friend had had so many conversations with the Elf, but he did not say so out loud. "Perhaps you could tell me, then, if there was a Man..." He stopped, considering that the last word might not really apply. "A _giant_ of a Man. A skin-changer from west of the Forest. He bore my uncle off the field during the Battle."

"_Beorn_," said Legolas. "He was there. As were several Men from the Lake and a fair number of Dwarves from the Iron Hills."

"And what of the Dwarves of my Company?" asked Fíli hopefully.

"I'm afraid I cannot say."

Fíli rubbed the back of his aching neck. "Besides my uncle and brother, I fear I may have lost more of my kin. I know one of my elder friends was found on the field after the Battle was over, though whether he was alive or dead, I never learned." He looked into the fire, wondering for a moment if Bifur had been among the burned, but he forced the thought away and turned again to Legolas. "The youngest of our company was also injured, but we got to him during the Battle, itself. Tauriel took him and his brother to the safety of the Gate, but..."

"There was no safety at the Gate," Legolas said quickly; then a strange look rose into his eyes and he returned his attention to the bow on his lap.

Fíli pressed his lips together, jolted into silence. He had assumed that when Tauriel had gone with Ori and Nori into the Mountain they would have been in a more secure place, but he didn't know why he had ever believed that. Even when the Battle was young, orcs and wargs had been trying to make their way over the barricade, and he supposed now that a good number of them might have holed themselves up inside at their first opportunity. They had, perhaps, planned on raiding the armories and barracks; or they may even have gone clear down to the treasure room searching for spoils.

Sigrid, at least, knew that there had been enemies within Erebor, or else she would not likely have gone the route of drawing the guard away from Thorin and Kili's tent by claiming there was a roving warg in the tunnels; but Fíli hadn't given it much thought beyond the fact that it had afforded him an opportunity to spend some time with his fallen brother and uncle. Now he wondered if Ori or Nori-or even _Tauriel_-had come to harm once they reached the Gate - though at least he had some answer as to why she had not come back to his and Kili's side as she had promised.

"Mithrandir and a halfling were at the funeral, as well," Legolas spoke up suddenly, breaking into Fíli's thoughts.

Fíli stared at him, wide-eyed. The name _Mithrandir_ was familiar to him, though he could not place where he had heard it before; but it was the news of the Hobbit that had drawn his attention around. He had expected no good word at all of him and had been afraid to ask - after all, it had been only a few short months before that he had first picked up a sword, and the Battle had been so fierce and confused that Fíli was sure he would have been among the first to fall.

"His name is _Bilbo_," he said after a minute. "He came with us from his home in the Shire. I'm glad he did, though _he_ might not be quite so glad of it. He and my uncle did not exactly part on good terms."

"They may have, at that," said Legolas. "According to Lord Balin, Thorin called for the halfling just before dawn the day after the Battle, and they spoke their last as your uncle passed on."

Fíli's eyes began to well up again. "Do you know what was said between them?" he asked, hoping that Thorin's final words to Bilbo had been kind ones.

"No," Legolas told him. "They were alone at the time, as far as I am aware."

Fíli lowered his face as the tears escaped his eyes; but a moment later, Nár let out a small whine. Fíli jumped and looked over at her, realizing only then that he was tightly gripping the fur on the animal's neck - though he hadn't noticed that he had allowed his touch to fall there. He let his fingers loosen, then lifted his hand away and rubbed at the lingering ache in his brow.

"I'm sorry for the loss of your kin," said Legolas, his voice low.

A weak, though slightly dubious grin found its way to Fíli's lips. "I don't, perhaps, deserve your sympathies after my words earlier. And from what you said, yourself, I think that any you might offer me may just be a polite lie."

"I have no reason to lie," said Legolas. "And despite what you may think, I do not hate your kind."

Fíli shrugged slightly. "I don't actually believe that," he admitted. "They were more my uncle's words than my own, I think. I won't say that I don't believe _any _of it, but certainly not _all_ of it. And if I am to be honest, I don't believe that you, personally, would have either taken any real joy in killing us, or that you would have left us to die."

A touch of unease flashed in Legolas's eyes. "You're wrong," he said. "I would have done both."

The comment took Fíli off-guard and his mouth fell open; then the exactness of the Elf's words brought a small smile to his lips.

"Are you saying you _would_ have done so, but no longer?"

Legolas stared at him with a softening expression, but said nothing; and so Fíli uncorked the water-skin and held it out once more. This time, the Elf accepted the offer, and after a small drink, he nodded appreciatively and passed the skin back.

A deep silence then fell as they both turned back towards the fire; and though the weight of unasked questions still hung heavily between them, they did not speak again for many hours.


	25. Wounds

**Chapter Twenty-five**

**WOUNDS**

**Several days have passed, and Fíli has grown not only used to Legolas's presence, but glad for it, as he is no longer hungry or thirsty, nor is he frightened that he might not make it out of the Forest alive. But still there are tensions between the travelers, and Fíli begins to regret starting the conversation he had previously longed for.**

* * *

For the next few days the travelers went on with no troubles, though the number of miles they covered were difficult for Fíli to reckon, as Legolas had several times taken them on shortcuts through the deep woods. When he had first done this, Fíli had feared that they would lose themselves in the Forest; but they came back to the path in good time, and he had to admit to himself that it was a good thing that the Elf's head was much harder to bewilder under the gnarled and glowering trees than was his own.

He was happy to have company at all, really, even if he did not say so aloud. He and Legolas had not in fact spoken much to each other while on their course, except to discuss what they would eat, when they should rest, and whether or not a fire should be set; but though Fíli had somewhat enjoyed the lack of conversation at first, the silence had gradually grown oppressive to the point where he would have welcomed even open debate.

And so, as the third day's trek was nearing its end, he had brought up the subject of his injured arm, questioning whether or not it might be a good time to change the bandaging. Legolas had told him then that it would be fine for a few more days, but he seemed to pick up on Fíli's unspoken insistence, and he at last agreed to clean and re-dress the burns when they stopped for the evening.

Now, Fíli watched on as Legolas's long, thin fingers unwrapped the cloth from around his arm; and though it did not hurt much any more, he knew that when the bottom layer of bandaging was removed it _would_ probably hurt quite a bit. So he gritted his teeth and held his breath as he waited for that surge of pain; but as the last layer was drawn off, he felt only a slight sting - and when he saw darkness on his skin and smelled the fresh scent of kingsfoil rising up, he knew _why_ the Elf had insisted that it could have gone a few more days.

"The bandaging does not need to be changed very often if the ointment remains covered," said Legolas, apparently guessing where the Dwarf's thoughts were; then he picked up a water-skin from his side and began to clean Fíli's arm. "Though I do not believe it will _need_ to remain covered for much longer, as you are healing quite quickly. You will, at least, have no need of keeping it in the sling from here on."

Fíli rotated his aching neck. "Thankfully," he said. "It gets rather uncomfortable after a while."

They fell into silence again as Legolas continued to clean the old ointment away, and Fíli pursed his lips as he thought about how much water he was using for that purpose. Not so long ago, he had himself hesitated in using his scanty water supply for anything but drinking; but when Legolas had joined him, its conservation had ceased to be an issue. The Elf carried no water of his own, and he never drank of Fíli's except when it was offered to him; but whenever the supply began to run low, he would go off with the skins to some secret spring in the woods, then return soon afterwards with water that was fresher and more clear than Fíli thought could come from anywhere within Mirkwood.

Food had also been plentiful enough, and Fíli was glad that the gnawing in his empty stomach was now just a memory. Just the day before this one, Legolas had given him another cake of lembas, though he hadn't needed to eat any of it yet, since it turned out that the Forest was not quite so devoid of edibles as he had thought. Many of the noxious-looking plants, Legolas had explained, actually had roots that were quite delicious when cooked, and several of the colorful and bitter-smelling mushrooms had stems that were meaty and satisfying - though Legolas warned him against touching the caps or shaking loose any of the spores, as they would make someone sick in quite a hurry.

In fact, most of the food that Legolas foraged for them was surprisingly wholesome, though Fíli had been reluctant to try the first few things he had dug out of the ground or scurried up into the branches to retrieve, as they did not _look_ healthy at all. After a while, though, he had given in, and he was happy that he did. The only thing that Fíli outright refused to eat at all were rather innocuous small green fruits, and that was solely due to the smell that rose up when Legolas cut into them. They did not smell foul, by any means; but they smelled like _apples_, and Fíli had never liked apples.

And there was more than plants out there to eat, as Legolas proved when he went to fill the water-skins this evening and came back with a freshly-killed hare. He had quickly skinned and cleaned it and set it over the fire to roast, and Nár had started panting and wagging excitedly as soon as it began cooking; and despite himself, Fíli smiled a bit at her enthusiasm. The meat smelled wonderful to him, after all, and he could only imagine how the animal, with her stronger senses, must be longing for it.

Fíli had grown a bit more at-ease in her presence over the last few days, though he still did not feel quite comfortable around her; and while she usually padded along beside Legolas as they were walking, she would occasionally slide close to Fíli when they settled in for a rest. That had, at first, not pleased the Dwarf - but after a while, he had given up on worrying about it, and no longer tried to warn her away with a glare whenever she came too near. Regardless, whenever he woke from sleep, he found the animal lying by his side; and though the first time she had done that, he had shoved her away, afterwards she had begun scooting back from him as soon as she saw his eyes open.

Now, though, her attention was elsewhere, and Fíli returned his own attention to Legolas. After a few minutes of cleaning away the old ointment, the Elf set the water-skin down, then turned to his satchel. As he rooted through it, Fíli held his arm up and examined the burns, finding then that they weren't as bad as he had feared. There had been blisters there at some point, but they were all gone by now, and though most of the skin below his elbow was red and slightly swollen, it was at least intact.

His palm, at least, was free of injury, and he now figured that he must have clenched his hand into a fist when he had fallen into the fire, so protecting it; but when he turned his hand over, there he found the worst of the damage. His fingers were red and scarred, and in places burned so deeply that he was certain that he would have lost them, had Legolas not gotten to him in time.

They were also stiff, as he learned when he tried to bend them. Deep pains shot out from the bases of his nails and, it seemed, right into the bones of his fingers; then his hand spasmed and his wrist jerked. The sudden wave of pain flowed up his arm, skipping past his elbow and jumping into the deep muscle of his shoulder. He bit down against it, managing not to make a sound, but sweat began beading on his forehead, and he reached up with his uninjured hand to wipe it away.

Legolas turned and looked first at Fíli's face, then at his crooked and cramped fingers; then he set down the jar of ointment he had just opened and instead took hold of Fíli's hand.

"Don't try to move it yet," he said.

"Sorry..." said Fíli through clenched teeth, forgetting for a moment that it he needn't have apologized for hurting himself. "Were the burns much worse when you first saw them?"

"Very much worse," said Legolas as he pressed his fingertips gently here and there on Fíli's hand and wrist. "It was fortunate for you that Nár pulled you away from the fire as quickly as she did."

The wolf lifted her head and let out a little noise of curiosity, and Fíli spared her a glance before turning again to Legolas. Slowly, the pain and cramping in his hand and fingers began to ease under the Elf's touch; then Legolas looked him in the eye-as if warning him to stay still-before picking up the jar of ointment and beginning to spread it gently over the reddened skin on his arm. Though the application stung a bit when he reached the worst of the open burns, the pain soon faded and Fíli's tense shoulders loosened, and as the scent of kingsfoil brightened his senses he drew in a deep breath.

Legolas recapped the ointment jar and stowed it in his satchel, then picked up Fíli's pack and handed it to him. "Bring out your shears and clean bandages."

Fíli started digging through his bag as best he could with one hand. "How did you know I had shears?" he asked, passing them and several white cloths to Legolas. "Did you search through my things when I was asleep?"

The Elf shook his head and began cutting several of the bandages into smaller lengths. "I saw them by accident after you were burned," he said. "I would not go through your belongings without permission."

"You weren't so worried about that when we first met," said Fíli. "We never did get anything back from you, and I am sure Gloin is still angry that you even _touched_ his picture frame."

"It _was_ returned to him," said Legolas as he began wrapping the shortened bandages around Fíli's fingers. "If you recall, it was only your company's _weapons_ that were taken, and everything else you were allowed to keep."

Fíli nodded then turned his eyes aside, thinking for a moment that it might have been better if certain other things _had_ been taken - those things that had allowed access into the Mountain, those things that had made it possible to waken the dragon: the coins they had used to pay Bard for passage, the map and key. Fíli could not help but think that the past couple months would have gone quite differently, and at least a little for the better, if Thranduil had been more unkind.

But, he reminded himself, though Smaug would not have been roused, there still would have been death. It was a certainty that the attack from the goblins and orcs and wargs still would have happened, and neither the Dwarven army from the Iron Hills nor the Elvenking's host would have been there to defend the people of Laketown when they did - and Erebor would now be in the hands of evil folk, who would also likely have taken Smaug as an ally.

"Regardless," Legolas went on, breaking into Fíli's thoughts, "the weapons that were taken from your company will be returned to them soon, as per my father's word. Though I expect _your_ weapons, in particular, will be placed in your tomb in lieu of your body. Of course, if you had gone to the Palace as I had suggested, you would have them yourself by now."

"I'm sure I would," said Fíli, trying not to think of his empty tomb or the two occupied ones that shared its chamber. "But they weren't irreplaceable, by any means. They never earned names or legacy, and I certainly did not treasure them as much as my uncle did Orcrist and Deathless."

"_Deathless_?"

"A Dwarvish sword that belonged to Thorin, and his father and grandfather before him," said Fíli. "You took it from him, same as you did Orcrist, though I doubt you deemed it of enough value to wield. It was one day to be mine, but I suppose it is well enough that it will go to my kin in the east."

The Elf looked at Fíli, then returned his attention to the bandage in his grip. "Was it so named after Durin the First?"

Fíli let out a quick laugh. "So you aren't completely ignorant on Dwarf history, after all?"

Legolas said nothing to this, but went on quietly binding first Fíli's hand, then his wrist and arm. When he tied off the bandage just below the Dwarf's elbow, however, he tilted his head curiously.

"Turn around."

"Why?" asked Fíli, drawing his eyebrows together.

"Let me see the back of your arm," Legolas clarified. "Turn it towards the firelight."

The Elf's tone was so insistent that Fíli did not hesitate in doing as requested, and a moment later, Legolas began pressing his fingers to the back of his arm. It felt strange to Fíli - as if there were something hard under his skin, and that underneath that hardness there was a deep bruise, though there was no pain on the skin itself.

"These marks," said Legolas, pulling Fíli's rolled-up sleeve further up his arm, then gently touching the back of his shoulder. "Were you aware of them?"

Fíli shook his head slightly as Legolas slid his fingertips back down to his elbow. "What marks?" he asked. "What do they look like?"

"They are like darkened veins," Legolas told him, moving his touch across the scar that Kíli's arrow had left behind. "Where did you get this wound?"

Legolas lifted his hand away, and Fíli reached over and felt around until his fingers landed on hard projections under his skin of his upper arm; then he felt along the damaged skin just below his elbow.

"It happened in the Battle," he said, pulling his sleeve back down and turning his face towards the fire. "But it's nothing that you need to worry about."

From the corner of his eye, Fíli saw Legolas sit back; and after a few quiet seconds, the Elf let out a long breath and removed the hare from the fire.

"If you wish to be healed, it would help if I knew the cause of the injury," he said, laying the meat on a thick length of bark. "I am sure that, wherever you are bound, you would prefer to get there alive and with both arms intact."

"I thought you more a hunter than a healer," said Fíli, smirking.

"Hands that do harm _are_ slow in healing," said Legolas flatly, drawing one of his knives off his back. "Just as hands that heal are slow to do harm. But between them, a balance can be reached."

"I suppose so," said Fíli. "Tauriel, at least, seemed to have managed that balance quite well."

Legolas gripped the knife tighter for a moment, then he thrust the blade down, splitting the hare up the middle with a single stroke; but he said nothing, and Fíli cleared his throat before going on.

"If you must know, it was an arrow-wound," he said. "And it doesn't need healing. I'm not so inclined as you are to find scars an evil."

"The scar itself may not be an evil," Legolas told him, laying the knife beside the hare where it rested on the bark. "Though what was left under your skin by the arrow's passage might be."

"It wasn't poisoned, if that's what you mean."

"Can you be certain? Orc arrows..."

"It wasn't an orcish arrow," Fíli cut him off, grabbing a piece of hot meat. "It was Elvish."

Legolas gave him a sidelong glance. "If the orc reclaimed it from the battlefield, it may still have been poisoned."

"It was not an orc or any other enemy that loosed it. And it was an accident that it hit me, at all."

"Then it was not an _Elf_ that shot you," said Legolas with an air of pride. "None of my kin would be so careless with their aim, even in the middle of battle."

"My brother was not _careless_ in his aiming," Fíli snapped; then he felt heat in his cheeks and he softened his tone. "His arrow hit its mark, it just... it grazed me on the way."

A look of disbelief rose briefly into Legolas's eyes. "Did he recover it from the battlefield beforehand?" he asked. "Was it removed from the body of an orc or warg before it struck you?"

"No, it was fresh. He had a quiver of them before the start of the Battle, and the one that hit me was among his last."

Legolas squinted slightly. "And where did he get them?"

"From a friend."

That answer seemed to distress Legolas, and he turned his face down and away. "The same _friend_ that gave you the wine?" he asked, tearing a small piece of meat off the hare and holding it out to Nár, who quickly gobbled it down. "I cannot imagine that you would have known _any_ Elf well enough that they would have given you _two_ such valuable things."

"Are you implying that Kíli stole the arrows?" asked Fíli, growing angry again. He finished eating the meat he held, then roughly wiped his fingers on his trousers; and though he tried to calm himself, he could not keep the ire out of his voice. "As you accused my uncle of stealing Orcrist? Despite what you may think, Legolas, not every Elvish thing in a Dwarf's hands is stolen."

Legolas's critical glare eased. "Orcrist was returned to Thorin," he said. "It now lies upon his tomb."

A lump rose in Fíli's throat. "I thought that you had claimed that sword for yourself," he said. "You called my uncle a thief and a liar for having it at all."

"I was mistaken," said Legolas; and from his tone, it was clear that he seldom spoke those words. "Though it took me a while to learn the truth of the matter."

Fíli pressed his hand to his temple as an ache began to grow there. "And I suppose I should be happy that you _did_ learn the truth, at the last," he said. "But though I'm sure Orcrist makes for a fair tomb ornament, I think it would have served my uncle better if it had been in his hand when Azog was bearing down on him."

"I'm sure it would have," said Legolas almost sadly. "But might it at least give you some comfort to know that Orcrist slit the throat of Azog's son?"

The breath caught suddenly in Fíli's throat. He had never even considered where orcs and goblins had come from, beyond the tales the elders had told of them clawing their way out of mud pits and stinking swamps, fully-grown and murderous. That they had _family_ of any sort was a ridiculous notion that Fíli was not ready to accept.

"How is that even possible?" he asked. "Do orcs... they don't _love_, do they? How can they have children?"

"It is dismaying, but _love_ is not necessary for bringing of children into the world. But in the case of Azog..." The Elf's voice trailed off. "The first orcs in this world were not _born_ as orcs, and the eldest of them that still remain had lives and kin before they became what they now are. Azog and his son, _were_ among the eldest."

Fíli swallowed hard. "If they were not orcs at the beginning, then what _were_ they?"

Legolas fixed him with a steely gaze, but his mouth was shut tight; and after a few silent seconds, he looked back to the fire. "Azog's son, _Bolg_, was the orc that shot your brother at the water-gate," he said, ignoring Fíli's question. "It was also he that led the attack on Lord Bard's home."

Fíli's heart started pounding hard, and he lowered his hand to his chest and took several long breaths as he waited for it to ease. "Then Orcrist at least served some use in your hand," he said, his voice cracking. "And I'm sure my uncle would be happy that you returned it to him at the last, though I thought you said you had not been at the funeral."

"My _father_ placed it on his tomb," said Legolas. "It was, at first, to be laid alongside Thorin's body, but by my father's request, your lords allowed it to be left in the open, so that all who saw it would know that the Elvenking and the King Under The Mountain were allies at the end."

"Reluctantly and unintentionally so," said Fíli. "But I guess that will have to do, since friendships are rare between our folk." He removed his shaking hand from over his heart and picked another piece of meat off the hare, but he did not feel yet like eating it. "And on that subject, I believe you already know who the _friend_ was that gave Kíli the quiver and arrows."

Legolas sighed. "And I'm sure that they were well given," he said. "And that being the case, if the arrow _was_ fresh from the quiver before it hit you, then you are right that it would not have been poisoned. Can you recall, though, anything getting into the wound _after_ it was opened?"

"Dirt and rainwater, I suppose," said Fíli, shrugging; then he glanced down at Nár, who had her chin resting on her paws. "And warg blood. Kíli's arrow felled one before it went through my arm and into... into an _orc's_ chest."

"Then his aim _was_ true," said Legolas. "It must have been, if he managed to kill both a warg and an orc with one shot."

Fíli thought for a moment about telling Legolas that Kíli had not killed the orc-that he had had not killed _Azog_-but instead he just stared harder at Nár. "The arrow would not have hit me, except that the orc was using me for a shield," he admitted. "Kíli risked wounding me in order to save my life. He can be forgiven for that."

Legolas turned his face away. "Yes, he can." He paused, then focussed on Fíli once more. "Warg blood in a wound _can_ cause infection, but I have never seen this type. Can you remember anything else about the wounding?"

The Dwarf looked down at the piece of hare that he still held in his hand, but his appetite was suddenly gone; and so he tossed the meat on the bark and reached up to the back of his head, scratching it lightly. "It is difficult, at times, to remember everything that happened in the Battle," he admitted; then he self-consciously lowered his hand and began tapping his fingers against his leg. "And, if I am to be honest, there is much about it that I do not _want_ to remember."

After a moment of silent staring, Legolas moved a little closer and raised his own hand. He stopped, holding his fingers an inch or so from Fíli's temple and looking at the Dwarf intently, as if asking permission to continue; and when Fíli nodded in assent, he began carefully feeling around the side of his head, then moved his fingers to the base of his skull. Fíli flinched when his fingertips brushed against the tender scar that Azog had left behind, but he did not pull away from Legolas's touch, and instead tightened his jaw and straightened his shoulders resolutely.

"Was this from as arrow, as well," asked Legolas.

Fíli shook his head slightly. "No," he said, then he cringed when Legolas pressed a bit too hard, sending small shocks of pain down his neck. "It was..." He clamped his mouth shut.

Legolas pulled his hand away and sat back again. "You needn't speak of the Battle, if it is that difficult for you," he said; then he tore off another piece of meat and handed it down to Nár. "It was a mistake to bring it up again in the first place, considering the effect it had on you the last time we spoke of it."

"We said a lot of things that day, you and I," said Fíli, "and I am sure it was not only the mentions of the Battle that made me..." The words froze on his lips, and he looked down at Nár as she licked her muzzle; then he turned to the Elf again. "I know that I was not the only one affected by our words, though your reaction might not have been so bold or disturbing as my own."

The firelight reflected off of Legolas's eyes as they flitted in the Dwarf's direction; but he said nothing, and Fíli went on.

"Grief may be a foreign thing to you, Legolas, but I know it well enough," he said, as gently as he was able. "I may not have _felt_ it myself until recently, but I have been surrounded by it all my life. I've seen it in my elder kin, my uncle, my mother... and I now see it in _you_. We have spoken, at least, of who I have lost, but not of the reason for your own grief. Your father still lives, I know, but of Tauriel you have said nothing."

Legolas turned to Fíli so suddenly that the Dwarf flinched and Nár lifted her head; then the Elf grabbed his knife off of the bark and the dirty rags from the fireside before rising swiftly to his feet.

"I am going to clean these," he said. "Rest here for a while."

With that, he turned and stalked away from the ring of firelight - and against his own better judgement, Fíli called out after him.

"I'm sorry," he said simply; and though he wanted to say more, the words caught in his throat.

Legolas stopped, but did not turn around, and Fíli could see that his hand was now gripping the knife so tightly that it looked as if he might snap the handle. The Elf took a deep breath, then loosened his fingers and spun the weapon behind him, returning it to the sheath on his back before walking on, into the midst of the darkened trees.

"I will not be long," he said, his voice fading as the distance between them grew. "Do not leave the fire."

Fíli watched him until he was out of sight, then turned his attention to Nár as she stood and started padding after the Elf - though just a few steps on, she halted and looked back.

"Go on, then," said Fíli, waving her off.

The wolf whined and glanced into the trees before turning again to Fíli, as if she was trying to decide who needed her company more at that moment; until, at long last, she came back to the fireside and laid down, once more resting her head on her paws. And so, Fíli nodded stiffly at her, then looked to where Legolas had vanished into the trees.

He did not want to think of any of his friends, old or new, having died, but he knew that if Tauriel still lived, Legolas would have had no reason not to tell him - but he also now realized that he should not have mentioned her in the first place. He had no idea, after all, how Elves mourned. Perhaps it was a peculiarity of theirs that they would act as if it never happened; perhaps it was _forbidden_, even, to speak of the dead.

But even if that were not the case, what right did Fíli have to try to force Legolas to open up about it? So that he would not feel alone in his mourning? So that he would know for certain that he was not the only person in this Forest that was grieving for someone?

Miles away, he knew, people were grieving for _him_, for his brother, for his uncle, for all the others that hadn't survived the dragon's rampage or the Battle that followed it. And who else of the Company, he wondered, was being mourned? Bifur? Gloin? Nori and Ori?

Fíli exhaled sharply and lowered his head.

"I sent them to the Gate, you know," he said, looking over at Nár as she continued to stare up at him with doleful eyes. "Nori and Ori and Tauriel, I mean. I thought they would be safe there."

He rubbed at the ache in his head, then reached over and kneaded at the stiffness in his shoulder.

"Did _you_ know Tauriel?" he asked. "Do you miss her? My brother really... he liked her. A lot, I think. More than my uncle would have cared for, at least." Nár whined softly, and Fíli's cheeks began to warm. "Don't tell the Elf I said that."

He released his shoulder and picked up the piece of meat he had set down on the bark a few minutes before, then he held it down to the animal, who sniffed at it before taking it tentatively from his fingers. He thought for a moment about giving her a scratch under the chin, but instead he turned again towards the fire.

"You're not such a bad little beast, really," he said, smiling weakly. "Kíli would have loved you."


	26. In Stone

**Chapter Twenty-six**

**IN STONE**

**Fíli has an odd and disturbing dream; but the conversation he later has with Legolas is more disturbing still.  
**

* * *

_Fíli ran his fingers along the smooth stone wall as he made his way down the darkened corridor; turning first one corner, then another, until he saw a faint golden glow ahead of him. Thror's treasure-room, he knew, lay in that direction - but the treasure he was seeking was somewhere else, in some other chamber. And so he spun about and began walking back the way he had come._

_"Where are you going?" someone asked from behind him; and he turned to look into Balin's face. The old Dwarf smiled kindly and pointed down a side-tunnel. "You are going in the wrong direction, laddie. Your room is this way, and it is well past bedtime."_

_"I was looking for the Arkenstone," said Fíli as Balin took him by the arm and led him down the hall. "Where is it?"_

_"You don't need to worry yourself about that," said Balin. "It's been a long day, and you need your rest."_

_They stopped outside a familiar heavy stone door, and Balin pushed it open, motioning for the younger Dwarf to enter the room before him. Fíli took a step inside, then stood fast and stared at the three intricately carved tombs at the center of the nursery. One of the __tombs_ _still lay open and empty, and on its side was carved his name. _

_Fíli shook his head and turned again to his old friend. __"There's a mistake, Balin," he said. "This isn't where I'm supposed to be."_

_"Oh, well, y'see... your father wanted you to have his old room," Balin told him, smiling wider. "Now get to bed before your mother finds out about all the trouble you've been getting yourself into..."_

_..._

Fíli's eyes flew open, and the cheerless treetops came into view as the nursery faded from his sight; and as Balin's voice dwindled, the deep silence of the Forest rushed in. He let himself take several deep breaths, watching them turn to fog as he gathered his thoughts, then he sat up and looked around. It was early morning now-earlier, it seemed, than he usually awoke-and the faint glow of dawn was doing little yet to chase the gloom from the clearing where the travelers had settled in for the evening.

Legolas was nowhere to be seen, though Nár was still by Fíli's side, as she had been when he had fallen asleep. When she saw him look her way, she lifted and tilted her head; and a moment later, she let out a quick breath through her nose and shifted her attention towards the nearby trees. Fíli turned that way, as well, then watched as Legolas stepped out of the darkness with three filled water-skins in his grip.

"Good morning," said Fíli flatly.

The Elf halted a few feet from the spent fire and eyed him curiously. "You are awake?"

"I suppose so," said Fíli, thinking the question rather silly, even for an Elf.

Legolas nodded, then sat down and rubbed Nár's back. "I thought you would sleep for another hour, at least."

"Well, I suppose we shouldn't waste that hour, then," said Fíli, taking the water-skin that Legolas was holding out in offer. "The Road is waiting."

...

Fíli heard a whine and glanced down to where Nár was padding along between him and Legolas. All of her attention seemed to be on the dried meat that the Dwarf had pinched between his fingers; and when he waved it in front of her, she started wagging her tail excitedly. He pressed his lips into a tight smile, then tossed the meat onto the trail ahead of them; and Nár froze, setting her paws firmly on the ground before running on ahead and snatching it up.

"I thought you didn't like her," said the Elf, breaking the silence that had persisted for the five hours since they had begun their day's trek.

"I don't have to like her to offer her my help," said Fíli; then he hummed absently as he realized he was echoing the words that Legolas had said to him a week earlier. "I'm not going to let her starve, anyway."

"She would not starve," said Legolas. "But if it means anything, she appreciates the gesture. For some reason, she likes you." He gave Fíli a sidelong glance. "Though she doesn't understand your distrust of her."

The smile on Fíli's face widened as the animal came back to his side. "Are you speaking for Nár, or for yourself?"

"I simply thought you might appreciate me passing on the sentiment, since you cannot understand her."

Fíli scratched above the bandage on his arm and shrugged. "You know, the Dwarves of Erebor were said to be able to speak to the Mountain Ravens in the old days," he said, trying to avoid mentioning that the sentiment _was_ appreciated - at least somewhat. "So it isn't beyond all possibility that I might one day understand what Nár has to say."

"Beasts and birds are not the same, and understanding one does not mean that you will be able to understand the other," said Legolas. "Besides, Ravens are intelligent creatures, and it is more likely that they could speak the speech of Dwarves than that your folk could speak theirs."

"Are you implying that birds are more intelligent than Dwarves?" asked Fíli lightly.

"I didn't say that. But though your kind might hear fairly well, you don't seem to be very good at listening."

Fíli grinned and glanced to the side, and there his gaze lingered for a moment on the inky spider-webs strung between the trees just off the trail. Since the day after the warg attack, he had seen fewer and fewer webs as they had gone further west, until all signs of the spiders' presence had at last disappeared altogether; but the morning before this one the webbing had suddenly shown up again, then had grown thicker, and for a time Fíli feared they might run into their makers. Now, however, the webs seemed to again be growing more sparse and ragged.

"The spiders..." he said. "Why have we seen none yet?"

"They are out there," said Legolas. "But there are not as many coming out of the south of late, and I have taken us along paths where they no longer gather."

"There is more than one path through this part of the Forest?"

"There are many, but most are known only to the Wood-elves. I assume you took the old Elven Road your first time through - at least, before your Company wandered off the track. But the one we are on now will bring us out somewhat further south than where you entered on your way east. The foothills of the Mountains of Mirkwood lie some seven leagues or so to the south of us, though I am sure you cannot see them."

Fíli looked to the left of the trail and squinted. "How could anyone see them, really?" he asked, turning his eyes ahead again. "Even disregarding the distance, there are many trees and a deep darkness between us and them."

"At any rate, we should be to the border of the Forest in five days time," said Legolas. "And the spiders, trees, and darkness will cease to be an issue for you."

"_Five_ days? I thought it would be at least a week."

"I had actually hoped we would be as few as _three_ days away by now, but I hadn't taken into account your need to stop so often. Nor the length of your legs."

At this, Fíli actually let out a small laugh. "Well, I'm sure you'll be happy to be rid of my company when we get there," he said, rubbing where his pack-strap had begun digging into his shoulder. "And I'm not complaining about the lack of spiders. I've quite had my fill of them, along with everything else about this Forest."

"I suppose you are including Nár and myself," said Legolas. "Of course, if you had returned to Erebor as I had suggested, you could have at the very least arranged for traveling companions that you enjoyed being with, rather than ones you simply tolerate."

"You're giving yourself and Nár too much credit by saying that I _tolerate_ you," said Fíli, only partly in jest.

"Regardless, you have not gone too far that you cannot still turn back."

Fíli sighed. "Perhaps. But there is really nothing for me in Erebor now."

"_Nothing_?" asked Legolas; though his tone made it seem as if he was trying a bit too hard to sound casual. "Not even the treasure that should at least in part be yours?"

"There is a greater treasure waiting for me in Ered Luin."

Legolas gave Fíli barely a glance before facing the path again. "Greater even than the Arkenstone?"

Heat rose in Fíli's chest and his feet stopped in mid-step. He knew that, even if he did not remember every moment that he had spent with Legolas, he would never have mentioned the Arkenstone to him. That was a subject deep and personal, and Fíli felt that he would not have spoken to even Balin about it at this point in time; though he cautiously reminded himself that Legolas may have only brought it up incidentally.

"Is that a topic of conversation that I have forgotten about?" he asked, forcing his expression to remain passive as he began walking again.

"Not unless you count what you have said in your sleep."

Fíli's shoulders drooped. "And when was this?"

"Just this morning," said Legolas. "Though I did not at first realize that you were asleep, as your eyes were open and you were speaking clearly. I only understood the truth of the matter after I heard you address Lord Balin."

A sudden ache pushed its way through Fíli's temple. "And what did I say about the Arkenstone?" he asked, doubling his right hand into a fist.

"You asked only where it was, and I told you that it now lies upon Thorin's chest. Did you hear my answer in your sleep?"

A touch of relief tempered Fíli's worry and he let his fist loosen. "No," he said after a few seconds. "Though I hoped that was where it would be. It meant a lot to my uncle, and it is only right that it was buried with him." He took a deep breath in an effort to clear the quavering from his voice, then looked down at his feet as they scuffed over the road-stones. "I know you weren't at the funeral, but do you know, at least, if it was Balin or Dáin that laid it in Thorin's tomb?"

"It was neither. The honor was to be Lord Bard's, but at the last moment he passed it on to your halfling friend."

Fíli smiled faintly, though his chin was beginning to shake. "I suppose, then, that Bilbo and Thorin parted in kindness, after all."

They fell silent for a moment before Legolas spoke up. "I am curious, though, why you did not choose to claim the Arkenstone for yourself."

The ache in Fíli's temple grew suddenly into a sting. "That is none of your concern," he said, rubbing his head; then he realized the turn the conversation had taken. "And who said that I had any claim over it in the first place?"

"It is the King's Jewel."

"Yes, and it was buried with him."

Legolas fixed him with a by-now-familiar stare, but Fíli simply glared back at him, no longer intimidated by the Elf's piercing blue eyes; then Legolas looked forward again and tilted his chin up.

"_Fíli, Son of Náli and Dís,_" he said."_Being In Descent From Durin I Deathless, Eldest Sister-Son And Chosen Heir Of Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under The Mountain._" He turned to Fíli once more. "As Lord Balin told the carvers should be written on your tomb. _Chosen heir_, implying that it was _you_ who should have taken the throne after your uncle's death."

A stiffness started working its way up from Fíli's left wrist as he tensed the muscles in that arm. "Being written in stone does not make something true," he said, carefully massaging out the pain in his left hand with his right. "Though I wonder how you could have heard so much from Balin as you claim to." He found it quite hard indeed to believe that his old friend would have spoken so freely around _any_ Elf - least of all any kin of Thranduil's.

"If you had decided not to assume rule, then why could you not have said as much to your kin?" pressed Legolas. "Why did you leave, rather than letting your voice be heard?"

"You and I neither know nor like one another well enough to speak of that," said Fíli through his teeth. "As I am certain _you_ do not feel inclined to tell me whether or not you look forward to assuming rule when your father is done being king."

"My father will never be _done being king_," said Legolas quickly.

Fíli's cheeks warmed. How, really, _could_ Legolas ever take the throne? Thranduil could not die, after all, of old age or disease, and it was highly unlikely that he would ever meet his end in battle - and he certainly did not seem the type to abdicate.

"So what's an Elven crown prince do, then," said Fíli without giving it much thought, "living forever with so little chance of succession?"

"What does a Dwarven crown prince do when he chooses to leave his kingdom behind without a word to his kin?" countered Legolas.

"He goes back to where he belongs," growled Fíli. "He goes _home_."

Legolas stopped walking, frowning down at Fíli as he also drew himself to a halt. "Is there _no_ reason you would return to the Mountain?" he asked. "Is there no plea from _any_ voice that would turn you around?"

The question was odd and abrupt; and the way the Elf's tone was turned almost to the point of threat made Fíli's ire rise.

"And whose voice would be calling for me," he snapped, "besides those that already think I'm dead and wish only for my remains to be returned?" He shifted his eyes down and away, then furrowed his brow and tightened his jaw in resolution as he cast his sight back up at Legolas. "That, then, is your answer: if I die before we part ways, you can bring my body back... otherwise, I will continue west until I either reach Ered Luin or I meet my end along the Road."

The Elf squinted slightly. "You would return to Erebor in death, but not while still living?"

"Dead is safer," said Fíli; then he shut his mouth tight, wishing he had not spoken that out loud.

Legolas lowered his head in what might have been either a nod or a moment of silent thought; then he turned again to Fíli and drew out one of his long knives with such swiftness that the Dwarf jumped back and let his hand fall on the pommel of his own sword. Legolas peered at him past sunken eyebrows for a few seconds before turning on his heel and crouching at the edge of the trail; and after brushing aside the dead leaves, he sunk the tip of his blade into the ground.

Fíli held his breath and stepped cautiously near, then a tremble began in his chest as he watched Legolas carve something in the dirt. At last Legolas pulled his knife out of the ground, and Fíli kneeled beside him and ran his fingertips along the familiar Dwarven writing that had been left in the blackened soil.

"How do you know of this?" he asked, his voice uneven. "Where did you learn these runes?"

"What do they mean to you?"

"If you do not already know, then I will not..."

The words caught in his throat and he looked over as the Elf wiped his dirty blade off on his palm.

"I am not asking you what the _runes_ mean," said Legolas. "I am asking if they hold meaning for _you_."

"More than you know," said Fíli, raising his voice to nearly a yell. "Now tell me where you learned them!"

Nár came up to Legolas, and he scratched her scruffy head as he again focussed on the marks. "They were carved into a small stone," he said; then he slid the knife into its sheath and stood.

Fíli pressed his hand to his throbbing temple. "And where did you find that stone?"

"I did not _find_ it. It was entrusted to me, and I was asked to give it to you."

"Then why did you _not_?" demanded Fíli, rising to his feet.

"I tried to," said Legolas as he began to move down the trail once more. "You gave it back to me."

Fíli's eyes fell on the runes for another moment before he rushed to catch up with the Elf, then he grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to a halt. "I may not remember everything that has happened since the Battle, but I am certain that I would never have..." He stopped, then widened his eyes and tightened his grip on Legolas's arm. "Who asked you to give it to me?"

There was heavy agitation in Legolas's face, and for a long few seconds he said nothing; then he let out a breath and turned aside.

"A friend," he said simply.

Fíli's jaw went slack. "_Tauriel_?" he asked barely aloud; then he let go of the Elf's arm and took a step back. "How did she die?"

"I did not say that she died," said Legolas, walking on.

"You don't _need_ to say it," said Fíli as he fell into step beside him. "She would not have asked you to give it to me if she could have done so, herself."

"That does not mean that she died."

"Did she _not_?"

In his rush to keep up, Fíli stumbled over a high stone and landed on his knees on the path. The Elf continued on for a few more steps before stopping, himself; but he did not look at Fíli, nor did he say a word.

When the silence began to grow heavy, Fíli gritted his teeth and shook his head. "You know that I count Tauriel among my friends," he said, looking over at Nár as she came up to his side. "Do you really find it so strange that I would like to hear some word of what happened to her?"

For a long moment, there was still no reply; then Legolas let out a sharp breath and Fíli looked to see that he had turned around and was now staring into the air between them. His lids were half-closed, and the muscles in his neck were tensed; and at once his eyes widened, as if something had occurred to him or a memory had been woken.

"You considered her to be a friend after knowing her for only a short time," he said, speaking just loud enough for Fíli to hear. "However, she was a friend to me for many hundreds of years before she met you or any of your kin, so you will forgive me if I do not feel obligated to pass on _word of her_ to you."

"So because I did not know her as well as you did, then I have no right to learn how..."

"Would it comfort you to hear that she _did_ die?" asked Legolas quickly, taking a step in Fíli's direction.

"Would it comfort you to _say_ it?" returned Fíli, falling back to sitting on the trail. "Or would you prefer to try and forget that it ever happened?"

Legolas looked off to the side and shook his head slowly. "I cannot forget."

"I know," said Fíli, as gently as he was able. "But if your memories do not fade, do you really want _this_ to be one of them? Do you want to forever remember how you refused to tell me something that you _knew_ I needed to hear?" His right hand began to shake, and when he could not still it, he instead pulled his knees up and hugged them to his chest. "Tell me, at least, about the rune-stone. Where did she get it? How did she come to give it to you? Where is it now?" He swallowed hard. "Do I not at least have the right to learn of that?"

For a long while, Legolas made no move; then at length he turned to Fíli and nodded. "I think it may be time for a fire."


End file.
